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“Nobody enjoys the company of others as intensely as someone who usually avoids the company of others.”
― Mokokoma Mokhonoana

“I had reclusive tendencies for a reason, I couldn’t be trusted to live in the world and make decisions on my own.”
― Penny Reid, Neanderthal Seeks Human

“It was already getting dark out, but I kept my sunglasses on. I didn't want to have to look anybody in the eye. I didn't want to relate to anybody too keenly. Plus, the fluorescent lights at the drug store were blinding. If I could have purchased my medications from a vending machine, I would have paid double for them.”
― Ottessa Moshfegh, My Year of Rest and Relaxation

“I was trapped. The day would be hell. I would suffer. I felt I might not survive. I needed a dark, quiet room, my videos, my bed, my pills. I hadn't been this far from home in many months. I was frightened.”
― Ottessa Moshfegh, My Year of Rest and Relaxation

“One might have all sorts of reasons for avoiding people. It's none of our business.”
― Iris Murdoch, The Green Knight

“Soon, I'd be home again. Soon, God willing, I'd be asleep.”
― Ottessa Moshfegh, My Year of Rest and Relaxation

“I had no desire to be seen by anyone, or talk to anyone. Sometimes out walking I would be in such a peculiar state of mind that I would rush home at the merest hint of another person.”
― Sebastian Barry, The Secret Scripture

“Some artists benefit less from being interviewed than they do from being left alone.”
― Mokokoma Mokhonoana

“I avoid the looming visitor,
Flee him adroitly around corners,
Hating him, wishing him well;

Lest if he confront me I be forced to say what is in no wise true:
That he is welcome; that I am unoccupied;
And forced to sit while the potted roses wilt in the crate or the sonnet cools

Bending a respectful nose above such dried philosophies
As have hung in wreaths from the rafters of my house since I was a child.

Some trace of kindliness in this, no doubt,
There may be.
But not enough to keep a bird alive.

There is a flaw amounting to a fissure
In such behaviour.”
― Edna St. Vincent Millay, Collected Poems

“In the distance, people were living lives, having fun, learning, making money, fighting and walking around and falling in and out of love. People were being born, growing up, dropping dead. Trevor was probably spending his Christmas vacation with some woman in Hawaii or Bali or Tulum. He was probably fingering her at that very moment, telling her he loved her. He might actually be happy. I shut the window and lowered all the blinds.”
― Ottessa Moshfegh, My Year of Rest and Relaxation

“She thought, I am becoming a recluse. Yes, that's it, that is the way.”
― Iris Murdoch, The Message to the Planet

“I'd stay home through the blizzard and get some hard sleeping done. I'd return to my old rhythm, my daily rituals. I needed the stability of my familiar routine.”
― Ottessa Moshfegh, My Year of Rest and Relaxation

“The internet in general and social networking sites in particular are making people more reclusive than social.”
― Sharanya Haridas

“I am perhaps excessively independent and generally reclusive, and I hated having to ask people for help, but I could see that this was yet another opportunity to work on a weakness. Free Rider was stretching me in ways I had never anticipated.”
― Steph Davis, High Infatuation: A Climber's Guide to Love and Gravity

“A Reclusive Invitation by Stewart Stafford

In a mansion crouched at the forest's edge,
Gargoyles perched on a Jericho hedge,
Lived Samuel Keane, with millions at least,
Welcomed the locals to his Christmas feast.

Self-imposed exile of wealth's solitary scene,
On that evening, time for connection pristine,
An alabaster white suit in a chessboard hall;
Legions of armour and battle scars to recall.

"Come, gather round, let camaraderie ignite!
On Christmas Eve, a dream-come-true night!"
Perkins, the grey butler, in reluctant festive red,
Gestured them toward Keane's banquet spread.

Their gracious host took his place at the end,
A throne chair helped into place with a bend,
Beaming, he clapped and food was brought in,
To gasps and applause at the goblets of gin.

A succulent feast at a baronial ball;
Roasted goose, boar, a tall glass highball,
Stories grew taller, just like each drink,
Songs and jests sent them over the brink.

Enjoyment and melody's atmosphere bright,
Fleeting warmth shared in lush candlelight.
Dawn looms, Les Misérables adore company:
"Why does hangover guilt crave chablis?"

A Father Christmas event once a year,
Guests departed, a loud triple cheer,
A fading smile of a host so grand,
Adrift, nothing elaborate planned.

The fireworks faded, the last ember died,
Keane shut his mansion with secrets inside.
A portcullis closed slowly on a seasonal high,
A gothic arch door shut 'neath morning star sky.

© 2024, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”
― Stewart Stafford