I go in silence, since my fatal words would make men weep and what I really want is solitude in which to shed my tears.

Crowded places, I shunned them as noises too rude
And fled to the silence of sweet solitude.
Where the flower in green darkness buds, blossoms, and fades,
Unseen of all shepherds and flower-loving maids — The hermit bees find them but once and away.
There I'll bury alive and in silence decay.

To me so deep a silence portends some dread event; a clamorous sorrow wastes itself in sound.

I want only silence, silence and again silence. Let me die quite and forgotten, or if I must live, let me live more quite, and forgotten still...

Solitude may rust your words.

I live in that solitude which is painful in youth, but delicious in the years of maturity.

Sometimes, it is true, a sense of isolation enfolds me like a cold mist as I sit alone and wait at life’s shut gate. Beyond there is light, and music, and sweet companionship; but I may not enter. Fate, silent, pitiless, bars the way…Silence sits immense upon my soul. Then comes hope with a smile and whispers, ‘there is joy is self-forgetfulness.’ So I try to make the light in others’ eyes my sun, the music in others; ears my symphony, the smile on others’ lips my happiness.

It was a quiet day, and I was alone in the kitchen, squatting in front of the stove. Lulled by the lethargic pounding of the pestle, the drizzle of the rain, and the soulful tones of the , I was lost in my own melancholy thoughts and savored the quiet that my loneliness afforded.

...for it is the fate of a woman
Long to be patient and silent, to wait like a ghost that is speechless,
Till some questioning voice dissolves the spell of its silence.
Hence is the inner life of so many suffering women
Sunless and silent and deep, like subterranean rivers
Runnng through caverns of darkness...

How can words be made still [in writing], without turning into silence? Silence is more to be feared than the agitation of voices.