Frank Sinatra Quotes

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

One's need for loneliness is not satisfied if one sits at a table alone. There must be empty chairs as well.

A home filled with nothing but yourself. It's heavy, that lightness. It's crushing, that emptiness.

All silence is. All emptiness. And now: The dawn.

I love to write when I feel like everybody else is asleep and when I feel like the world is kind of empty in some ways. I find, oddly enough, that I write about loneliness and isolation a lot.

We wake in the night, to stereophonic silence.

Better, Cilla thought, to be alone on a quiet night than to be alone in a crowd. Much better.

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.

I sat up, sliding them off, and the quiet around me did not, for once, seem empty and vast. Instead, for the first time in a while, it felt like it already was full.

I need, absolutely, to be alone.

A great reader seldom recognizes his solitude.

I live alone, so I don't really talk to anyone once I'm home. I have some silent nights.

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.

I lived alone, I didn't know anybody in New York, and I was definitely a recluse. It had been, like, two weeks, and I realized I hadn't said anything. I was laying in bed, and I was like, 'Hello?' I just talked to hear my own voice. And it was such a strange feeling.

That's what my music is good for - clearing out the house and being alone.

We must relearn to be alone.

Solitude matters. And for some people it's the air they breathe.

The appearance presented by the streets of London an hour before sunrise, on a summer's morning, is most striking even to the few whose unfortunate pursuits of pleasure, or scarcely less unfortunate pursuits of business, cause them to be well acquainted with the scene. There is an air of cold, solitary desolation about the noiseless streets which we are accustomed to see thronged at other times by a busy, eager crowd, and over the quiet, closely-shut buildings, which throughout the day are swarming with life and bustle, that is very impressive.

The loudest noise in the world is silence.

n OthI n g can s urPas s the m y SteR y of s tilLnes s

Pressed against her I can hear eternity -- hollow, lonely spaces and currents that churn ceaselessly, and the fallen snow welcomes the falling snow with a whispered "Hush".

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.

Isolation, but it's a good vulnerability. Humbling. I actually seek out solitude.

There is a certain unique and strange delight about walking down an empty street alone. There is an off-focus light cast by the moon, and the streetlights are part of the spotlight apparatus on a bare stage set up for you to walk through. You get a feeling of being listened to, so you talk aloud, softly, to see how it sounds.

I have only one confidant, and that is the silence of night.