Lena Waithe Quotes

I have very few friends. I'm an associate of everybody and friend of none.

I think most writers feel like they're on the outside looking in much of the time. All of us feel, to a certain extent, alienated from the stuff going on around us.

You can grow apart from people very quickly.

Academic and aristocratic people live in such an uncommon atmosphere that common sense can rarely reach them.

For the air of lonely men surrounded him now, a still atmosphere in which the world around him slipped away, leaving him incapable of relationship, an atmosphere against which neither will nor longing availed. This was one of the significant earmarks of his life.

His mind of man, a secret makes I meet him with a start he carries a circumference in which I have no part.

Now they were as strangers; nay worse than strangers, for they could never become acquainted.

I am out of humanity's reach.

Between me and life is a faint glass. No matter how sharply I see and understand life, I cannot touch it.

Nowadays the host does not admit you to his hearth, but has got the mason to build one for yourself somewhere in his alley, and hospitality is the art of keeping you at the greatest distance.

I feel completely detached from any country, any group. I am a metaphysically displaced person

I feel like I'm away for much of my own life.

It's so quiet this high up, the feeling you get is that you're one of those space monkeys. You do the little job you're trained to do. Pull a lever. Push a button. You don't understand any of it, and then you just die.

If, on thinking this, I look up to see if reality can quench my thirst, I see inexpressive facades, inexpressive faces, inexpressive gestures. Stones, bodies, ideas - all dead. All movements are one great standstill. Nothing means anything to me, not because it's unfamiliar but because I don't know what it is. The world has slipped away. And in the bottom of my soul - as the only reality of this moment - there's an intense and invisible grief, a sadness like the sound of someone crying in a dark room.

No one in this country has any root anywhere; we don't live in America, we board here, we are like spiders that run over the surface of the water.

I felt a tremendous distance between myself and everything real.

People come and people go, moving fast and moving slow, I'm in a crowd and yet I'm all alone.

I tend to close my eyes when I look at people anymore.

As from a star I saw, coldly and soberly, the separateness of everything. I felt the wall of my skin; I am I. That stone is a stone. My beautiful fusion with the things of this world was over.

There are all these people here I don't know by sight or by name. And we pass alongside each other and don't have any connection. And they don't know me and I don't know them. And now I'm leaving town and there are all these people I will never know.

Most people are on the world, not in it-- having no conscious sympathy or relationship to anything about them-- undiffused seporate, and rigidly alone like marbles of polished stone, touching but seporate.

Everyone's in their own personal coma.

The farther we get away from the land, the greater our insecurity.

I cannot hate them because nothing binds me to them; I have nothing in common with them.

I seem fated to pass through the world without colliding with it or moving it — and I'm sure I can't tell you whether the fate's good or evil. I don't die — I don't fall in love. And if other people die or fall in love they always do it when I'm just not there.