Maurice Sendak Quotes

When one by one our ties are torn, and friend from friend is snatched forlorn; when man is left alone to mourn, oh! then how sweet it is to die!

Getting through the nights is the toughest part. Being alone. Not having her there to talk to.

They are all gone into the world of light, and I alone sit lingering here.

You reach out your hand, but you're all alone, in those time passages.

Widow. The word consumes itself.

I think that one of the reasons why people look towards the end of humanity is that people are afraid to die alone. If you die alone, the people you love will miss you, or if they die, you miss them - the sorrow is inevitable. When you truly love someone, the thought of losing them forever is horrible.

I used to cry myself to sleep every night. I missed singing so much. And performing. Man, I missed it so much.

I am left alone in the wide world. My own dear family I have buried: one in Rangoon, and two in Amherst. What remains for me but to hold myself in readiness to follow the dear departed to that blessed world, 'Where my best friends, my kindred dwell, where God, my Saviour, reigns.'

I do not regard it as wrong to take my life, because I simply change my place of residence and go where my wife and baby are.

I think about dying. I've come to realize we all die alone in one way or another.

And whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to his own funeral drest in his shroud.

She died and with her died my last warm feelings for humanity.

All my friends, they're all gone. I've outlived them all.

It is sometimes difficult to comprehend that I am the only member of our original family still living.

Dark house, by which once more I stand Here in the long unlovely street, Doors, where my heart was used to beat So quickly, waiting for a hand, A hand that can be clasp'd no more - Behold me, for I cannot sleep, And like a guilty thing I creep At earliest morning to the door. He is not here; but far away The noise of life begins again, And ghastly thro' the drizzling rain On the bald street breaks the blank day.

I am writing this book because we're all going to die - In the loneliness of my own life, my father dead, my brother dead, my mother faraway, my sister and my wife far away, nothing here but my own tragic hands that once were guarded by a world, a sweet attention, that now are left to guide and disappear their own way into the common dark of all our deaths, sleeping in me raw bed, alone and stupid: with just this one pride and consolation: my broke heart in the general despair and opened up inwards to the Lord, I made a supplication in this dream

There, in the center of that silence was not eternity but the death of time and a loneliness so profound the word itself had no meaning. For loneliness assumed the absence of other people, and the solitude she found in that desperate terrain had never admitted the possibility of other people. She wept then. Tears for the deaths of the littlest things: the castaway shoes of children; broken stems of marsh grass battered and drowned by the sea; prom photographs of dead women she never knew; wedding rings in pawnshop windows; the tiny bodies of Cornish hens in a nest of rice.

He really had been through death, but he had returned because he could not bear the solitude.

I stood on the balcony dark with mourning... hoping the earth would spread its wings in my uninhabited love.

Evil indeed is the man who has not one woman to mourn him.

The common denominator of all my friends is that they're dead.

Most songs are somewhere between love and death, and mine are no exception.

Sometimes, only one person is missing, and the whole world seems depopulated.

Of my friends I am the only one left.