William E. Gladstone Quotes

A desert is a place without expectation.

Not a living thing was to be seen and the cottages that sat huddled close to the ground remained fast shut; the smoke from the chimneys alone still gave a sign of life.

There is nothing more mysterious than a TV set left on in an empty room. It is even stranger than a man talking to himself or a woman standing dreaming at her stove. It is as if another planet is communicating with you.

Absolute silence leads to sadness. It is the image of death.

The enormous lake stretched flat and smooth and white all the way to the edge of the gray sky. Wagon tracks went away across it, so far that you could not see where they went; they ended in nothing at all.

The emptiness was intense, like the stillness in a great factory when the machinery stops running.

The house clock, place certain there at the bottom of things, strikes the half hour dry and null. All is so much, all is so deep, all is so dark and cold!

Now the windows, blinded by the glare of the empty square, had fallen asleep. The balconies declared their emptiness to heaven; the open doorways smelt of coolness and wine.

I am living at the Villa Borghese. There is not a crumb of dirt anywhere, nor a chair misplaced. We are all alone here and we are dead.

Tell them I came, and no one answered, That I kept my word," he said. Never the least stir made the listeners, Though every word he spake Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house From the one man left awake: Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup, And the sound of iron on stone, And how the silence surged softly backward, When the plunging hoofs were gone.

It's the silence I imagine in the rest of the world, the silence of an endless ocean and uninhabitable island, a silence that can be seen from space.

Earth, left silent by the wind of night,Seems shrunken 'neath the gray unmeasured height.

Nothing happens. Nobody comes, nobody goes. It's awful.

Within, walls continued upright, bricks met neatly, floors were firm, and doors were sensibly shut; silence lay steadily against the wood and stone of Hill House, and whatever walked there, walked alone.

She learned the intricacy of loneliness: the horror of color, the roar of soundlessness and the menace of familiar objects lying still.

He could not feel her near him in the darkness nor hear her voice touch his ear. He waited for some minutes listening. He could hear nothing: the night was perfectly silent. He listened again: perfectly silent. He felt that he was alone.

Even Echo speaks not on these radiant moors.

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

I want to be around people, not crickets.

My witness is the empty sky.

I hated Sundays when I was growing up in Streatham, south London. Everything closed down and stopped.

Gee, its lonesome in the outfield. It's hard to keep awake with nothing to do.

The call of love sounds very hollow among these immobile rocks.

Every word is like an unnecessary stain on silence and nothingness.

The most boring thing in the world? Silence.