...even a poisoned, desolate childhood can be missed.

Dear childhood, you will be missed, sincerely me.

— Andy

“Carla's description was typical of survivors of chronic childhood abuse. Almost always, they deny or minimize the abusive memories. They have to: it's too…

— David L. Calof

“Don’t even talk to me about being a mother. You were never a mother! Just the psychotic twat I lived with for the first…

— Brandon Shire

From an early age she had developed the art of being alone and generally preferred her own company to anyone else’s. She read books…

— Sebastian Faulks

I expected the unexpected and went [on the Moon] with an open mind. I think the visual scene was described by my words on…

— Buzz Aldrin

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