This will be a winter so desolate, only memory can fill…

I shattered that memory by going back there. Without realizing it until it was too late, I replaced that memory with the emptiness of…

— J.A. Redmerski

Other people may complicate our lives, but life without them would be unbearably desolate. None of us can be truly human in isolation. The…

— Harold S. Kushner

And that enquiring man John Synge comes next, That dying chose the living world for text And never could have rested in the tomb…

— William Butler Yeats

“And that's what I was then. I was a ghost.”

— Jeff VanderMeer

“Take care of your heart and your mind for they are like a garden. And nothing good thrives in a garden full of weeds.”

— Michael Bassey Johnson

Leaves like rusty tin for the desolate mind that has seen the end- the barest glimmerings. Leaves aswirl with gulls made wild by winter.

— Giorgos Seferis

He who abhors and shuns the light of the Sun,He who refuses to behold with respect the living creation of God,He who leads the…

— Zoroaster

“That’s a stupid name! Whirly-gig is much better, I think. Who in their right mind would point at this thing and say, ‘I’m going…

— Nathan Reese Maher

And really, the reason we think of death in celestial terms is that the visible firmament, especially at night (above our blacked-out Paris with…

— Vladimir Nabokov

We live in an era where masses of people come and go across a hostile planet, desolate and violent. Refugees, emigrants, exiles, deportees. We…

— Isabel Allende

“Call me crazy, but there is something terribly wrong with this city.”

— Nathan Reese Maher

At a time when it's possible for thirty people to stand on the top of Everest in one day, Antarctica still remains a remote,…

— David Attenborough

Spirit of BEAUTY, that dost consecrate With thine own hues all thou dost shine upon Of human thought or form, where art thou gone?…

— Percy Bysshe Shelley

What people loathe the most is to be orphaned, desolate, unworthy. But this is what princes and kings call themselves.

— Laozi

My God, whose son, as on this night, took on Him the form of man, and for man vouchsafed to suffer and bleed, controls…

— Charlotte Bronte