The one thing I’d learned was that having someone with you all the time did not take away the loneliness. You could be surrounded by people and be lonely. Something was missing. I could almost pinpoint it, but right when it was within my grasp I forgot; it just slipped away.
I myself, from the very beginning, Seemed to myself like someone's dream or delirium Or a reflection in someone else's mirror, Without flesh, without meaning, without a name. Already I knew the list of crimes That I was destined to commit.
She walked in the shadow of Rango with a great feeling of being taken out of herself, of having no knowledge of what was happening to her, merely a pervading sense of flow.
I felt a tremendous distance between myself and everything real.
The most evident quality of human life is its loneliness.
Everyone sort of feels alienated at that point, so it's hard to say whether I felt like that because everyone does or because I was so focused on acting [since the age of 8].
It struck him as a bit unfair that, at the age of eight, he should have manifested the same sense of solitude that haunted him at forty-three.
He felt that his whole life was some kind of dream and he sometimes wondered whose it was and whether they were enjoying it.
Loneliness is an aspect of the land.
Vaguely at first, then more distinctly, I realized that man is an eternal stranger on this planet.
I've never thought of myself as an outsider but the more I'm around people, it appears to be that I'm an outsider. When they look at you and go, "What planet did you drop in from?" I don't know, but it's always been like that.
I've always felt kind of like an outsider, even when I was very successful back in the old days. Even then. I kind of enjoyed it, really.
I know always that I am an outsider; a stranger in this century and among those who are still men.
I can’t exactly describe how I feel but it’s not quite right. And it leaves me cold.
For some time now the impression has been growing upon me that everyone is dead. It happens when I speak to people. In the middle of a sentence it will come over me: yes, beyond a doubt this is death. There is little to do but groan and make an excuse and slip away as quickly as one can.
I felt as if I was the only person awake in a city of sleepwalkers. That's an illusion, of course. When you walk through a crowd of strangers it's next door to impossible not to imagine that they're all waxworks, but probably they're thinking just the same about you.
It was hysterical going to work. I would just walk in and think, 'What in hell? Am I here? What's going on? I'm going to wake up in a minute. I'm in a dream.'
I have an habitual feeling of my real life having past, and that I am leading a posthumous existence.
As soon as I'm finished with it, it feels like an impersonal project. Like, "Well, I did another book."
