Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Desolate. Share them with your friends on social media platforms like Facebook, Twitter, or your personal blogs, and let the world be inspired by their powerful messages. Here are the Top 100 Desolate Quotes And Sayings by 92 Authors including Sylvia Plath,Bret Easton Ellis,Emmanuelle De Maupassant,Diana Gabaldon,Thomas Gray for you to enjoy and share.
I felt dull and flat and full of shattered visions.
A vast and abandoned world laid out in anonymous grids and quadrants, a view that confirmed you were much more alone than you thought you were, a view that inspired the flickering thoughts of suicide.
The cold is waiting to ooze through the soles of your shoes. Maggot-damp, this city is festering: home to hollow faces of grey flesh. They stare from windows unclean, into the sun never reaches: dismal lives lived in dismal constriction.
Despair dragged at me like an anchor, pulling me down. I closed my eyes and retreated to some dim place within, where there was nothing but an aching grey blankness ...
Sorrow's faded form, and solitude behind.
There is a terrible emptiness in me, an indifference that hurts.
As a splendid palace deserted by its inmates looks like a ruin, so does a man without character, all his material belongings notwithstanding.
No soul is desolate as long as there is a human being for whom it can feel trust and reverence.
There is no place to go and no one to be.
I love bleak things.
The emptiness of one's days
can be seen as utterly hopeless
or as ripe with potential.
There was nothing but a lonely magnificence of sea and islands
I had known loneliness before, and emptiness upon the moor, but I had never been a NOTHING, a nothing floating on a nothing, known by nothing, lonelier and colder than the space between the stars. It was more frightening than being dead.
A waste land lit by holy candles.
I have seen so many lands vanish in my wake, torn down like stage sets. What survives of them? An image as fleeting as a dream: whatever beauties I discovered, I already knew by heart.
A spiritual desert is spreading - an interior emptiness, an unnamed fear, a quiet sense of despair.
The country is crazy with barrenness, and the sea mocks it with its terrible beauty.
Such dreary streets! blocks of blackness, not houses, on either hand, and here and there a candle, like a candle moving about in a tomb.
I am listless, I am a wanderer in my heart.
In the sunny haze of the languid hours, what vast vision of thine takes shape in the blue of the sky!
No life anywhere, no life in this town or this place or in this weary existence
Sleeplessness is a desert without vegetation or inhabitants.
the silence of the void, as if the world stopped breathing and
Bored with the same type of misery over and over and over again.
It's a vast, lonely, forbidding expanse of nothing rather like clouds and clouds of pumice stone. And it certainly does not appear to be a very inviting place to live or work.
Now you are burnt-out husks, your spirits haggard, sere, always breeding over your wanderings long and hard, your hearts never lifting with any joy - you've suffered far too much.
Hopeless. Freak. Elephant. Pitiful
I can't help telling you that I've begin to feel deserted.
As desire recedes, the world becomes clear, pale, and empty.
How many we know who have fled the sweetness of a tranquil life in their homes, among the friends, to seek the horror of uninhabitable deserts; who have flung themselves into humiliation, degradation, and the contempt of the world, and have enjoyed these and even sought them out.
This is a forsaken place ... I can think of no use for a place like this, except that you could say of it: I saw the heart of nothing, and survived.
Poverty, to be picturesque, should be rural. Suburban misery is as hideous as it is pitiable.
Nothing teems But hateful docks, rough thistles, kecksies, burs, Losing both beauty and utility.
Longing for the mountains
The gloomy and the resentful are always found among those who have nothing to do or who do nothing.
What I was trying to convey there was the kind of waste land that was left after the war. It was a bit like one always thinks of war, you know, stark scenery and no birds, no trees, no leaves, nothing living. And just emptiness.
The other [picture] was a ruined village made up of rubble and cracked houses and trees raked clean of bark. Just looking at it,I could almost hear a lonely wind blowing; the palpable silence of a place robbed suddenly of life.
Trying to find solace in the remaining
parks and lakes.
Now we're forced to get away,
take trips to the real
you feel like a field of sugar canes after the harvest - burnt out, all cutting edges with no sweetness left inside.
She was hollow and lost and abandoned up.
... eerie in a way it is nowhere else in the world, the flats receding and the low hills rising as if they are just fields of mist and walls of fog, illusions of shapes and dimensions, reflections of reflections, and those reflections only reflections of a dream.
The various forms of despair at the various stations on the road.
Loneliness is the bitter fruit of wilderness.
Homesick? For a village in the middle of nowhere? Where there's no work and everyone
Loneliness was nothing
...bleak territory of the heart.
Idleness, pleasure, what abysses! To do nothing is a dreary course to take, be sure of it. To live idle upon the substance of society! To be useless, that is to say, noxious! This leads straight to the lowest depth of misery.
Condemned to Hope's delusive mine,
As on we toil from day to day,
By sudden blasts or slow decline
Our social comforts drop away.
One of the saddest sights of the slums is to see the thrifty wife of the working man, with her rosy brood of children, used to country air and sunshine, used to space, privacy, good surroundings, cleanliness, quiet, shut up amid the noise and dirt and confusion, in the gloom of the slum.
A city no worse than others, a city rich and vigorous and full of pride, a city lost and beaten and full of emptiness.
Emptiness is a symptom that you are not living creatively. You either have no goal that is important enough to you, or you are not using your talents and efforts in a striving toward an important goal.
Utterly, irrevocably, lost
The same feeling of not belonging, of futility, wherever I go: I pretend interest in what matters nothing to me, I bestir myself mechanically or out of charity, without ever being caught up, without ever being somewhere. What attracts me is elsewhere, and I don't know where that elsewhere is.
Whole sight; or all the rest is desolation.
Feelings of depression; feelings of frustration; feelings of emptiness in the face of all this randomness - done down by the haphazard, yet again.
Vast emptiness, nothing holy.
A busy life is filled with tremendous emptiness.
Alone, Empty, Fraud, Shame, Fear,
Close your eyes.There is nothing to see out here.
Boredom is the keynote of poverty - of all its indignities, it is perhaps the hardest of all to live with - for where there is no money there is no change of any kind.
I wonder what people do when they have no place to go and no place to be.
Loneliness is an aspect of the land.
That's what depression had wrought inside me: one, vast, barren rock garden-without the garden
islanded in a sea of meaningless color,
Death, lonely death, Beneath the withered leaves.
All dark and comfortless.
My soul is all an aching void.
There is a strange depression that hangs over every little town that is no longer in the mainstream of life.
Sumire was so bereft of household goods the place looked deserted. There weren't any curtains in the windows and the books that didn't fit into the bookshelf lay piled on the floor like a gang of intellectual refugees.
I do not love famous nightclubs. They make me feel very cheerless and abandoned. Am I applying that word correctly? Abandoned?
London is a huge, stony desert: even boredom feels endless there.
I will weep and wail for the mountains and take up a lament concerning the desert pastures. They are desolate and untraveled, and the lowing of cattle is not heard. The birds of the air have fled and the animals are gone.
The region is a desert of stones, a solitude with a character of its own, an arid spot, which could only be inhabited by beings who had either attained to absolute nullity, or were gifted with some abnormal strength of soul.
No home anymore. Nowhere to return. My house is a ruin, a cemetery. You may yearn for the grave, but just try living there.
In this rural wasteland I feel I am not myself.
Unhappy the land that is in need of heroes
The Parisan, sauntering the streets idly, is as often a man in despair as a lounger.
The thing about being barren is that you're not allowed to get away from it.
Under the vague dullness of the gray hours, dissatisfaction seeks a definite object and finds it in the privation of an untried good.
A world without hope, but no despair
As the moral gloom of the world overpowers all systematic gaiety, even so was their home of wild mirth made desolate amid the sad forest.
Loneliness swept over me, and I became aware of the vast uninhabited spaces.
THESE are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night and the heart plunges lower than night.
An unfinished feeling.
A place without meaning is no place to be.
There was no grandeur here, no sublimity, only weariness and gloom.
The whole world appears to me like a huge vacuum, a vast empty space, whence nothing desirable, or at least satisfactory, can possibly be derived; and I long daily to die more and more to it; even though I obtain not that comfort from spiritual things which I earnestly desire.
When you look for a long time into the deep sky, without taking your eyes away, your thoughts and soul merge for some reason in an awareness of loneliness. You begin to feel yourself irremediably alone, and all that you once considered close and dear becomes infinitely distant and devoid of value.
The desolate narrowness, the definitive thinness of experience is both the vainglory and the dead giveaway of a provincial man.
There is darkness there that never sleeps.
These days there's no time to be bored, happiness has vanished somewhere in the world, and all that's left is dismay.
An eerie silence has descended over the house. Every few minutes, I hear a grunt and the scraping sound of a box dragging along the floor. Other than that, there's nothing. It's like the silence is the actual articulation of the emptiness we all feel.
The lonely become either thoughtful or empty.
reeking of sewage and rotting corpses, burned-out shells of houses, feral dogs
Certain empty houses that seemed to stare like the faces of people suffering from terrible mental illness. An empty barn on the outskirts of town, the hayloft door swinging open and closed on rusty hinges, first disclosing darkness, then hiding it, then disclosing it again.
I waste the mountains and hills
Man finds nothing so intolerable as to be in a state of complete rest, without passions, without occupation, without diversion, without effort. Then he feels his nullity, loneliness, inadequacy, dependence, helplessness, emptiness.
For years, my life has been flat. I'm not sure how else to describe it. I've never admitted it before. I'm not depressed, I don't think. That's not what I'm saying. Just flat, listless. So much has felt accidental, unnecessary, arbitrary. It's been lacking a dimension. Something seems to be missing.
She had an emptiness in her eyes like a ghost tired of haunting.
A single person is missing for you, and the whole world is empty.
The obliterated place is equal parts destruction and creation. The obliterated place is pitch black and bright light. It is water and parched earth. It is mud and it is manna. The real work of deep grief is making a home there.
What remains is solitude.