Only in a house where one has learnt to be lonely does one have this solicitude for things. Ones relation to them, the daily seeing or touching, begins to become love, and to lay one open to pain. – Elizabeth Bowen
A lonely man is a lonesome thing, a stone, a bone, a stick, a receptacle for Gilbeys gin, a stooped figure sitting at the edge of a hotel bed, heaving copious sighs like the autumn wind. – John Cheever
