John Fremont Quotes

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

For me, repetition is death.

A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, And the dry stone no sound of water. Only There is shadow under this red rock, (Come in under the shadow of this red rock), And I will show you something different from either Your shadow at morning striding behind you Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

I go out there. I'm out there every day. [Pause] There is nothing out there.

Certainly on the vast windy plain, there was plenty of nothing to be looked at.

So I walked away and left him standing there in the moonlight - watching over nothing.

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

A picture of my existence... would show a useless wooden stake covered in snow... stuck loosely at a slant in the ground in a ploughed field on the edge of a vast open plain on a dark winter night.

I'd probably sit around the house and get lonesome if I didn't have something to do.

There is nothing so desperately monotonous as the sea, and I no longer wonder at the cruelty of pirates.

I have been back in Paris for two weeks. Nothing new. Life is still bitter.

A desert is a place without expectation.

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

The most boring thing in the world? Silence.

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.

People who have nothing to do are quickly tired of their own company.

Sleeplessness is a desert without vegetation or inhabitants.

I live a very dull life here... indeed I think I am more like a state prisoner than anything else.

My personal life is fairly barren.

For a long time now my heart has had its shutters closed, its steps deserted, formerly a tumultuous hotel, but now empty and echoing like a great empty tomb.

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!

Nothing impresses the mind with a deeper feeling of loneliness than to tread the silent and deserted scene of former throng and pageant.

I love all waste and solitary places.

Only now do I understand the war against boredom, the lost cause of empty hours, of empty days and nights.