Quotes About Contrast

The dark side of life, and the horror of it, belonged to a world that lay remote from his own select little atmosphere of books and dreamings.

In a land of sand and ruin and gold There shone one woman, and none but she

Cold eyelids that hide like a jewel Hard eyes that grow soft for an hour; The heavy white limbs, and the cruel Red mouth like a venomous flower; When these have gone by with their glories, What shall rest of thee then, what remain, O mystic and somber Delores, Our Lady of Pain?

What a difference is there between a deed whose pleasure passes away leaving behind it the pangs of pain and punishment and the deed whose oppressive harshness comes to an end leaving behind Divine rewards !

He was the most beautiful boy I had ever seen in my life. But he really looked like a girl. She was the most beautiful boy I'd ever seen in my life.

But that's summer for you. Summer's like walking down a road just like this one, heading towards both light and dark. Because summer isn't just a merry tale. Because there's no merry tale without darkness.

The trees are revealing their structures. There's the catch of fire in the air. All the souls are out marauding. But there are roses, there are still roses. In the damp and the cold, on a bush that looks done, there's a wide-open rose, still.

Here was all about the visible-invisible borders, the thin lines between here and gone, then and now, here and there, random and meant, big and small.

But I prefer the windy days, the days that strip me back, blasted, tossed, who knows where, imagine them, purple-red, silver-pink, natural confetti, thin, fragile, easily crushed and blackened, fading already wherever the air's taken them across the city, the car parks, the streets, the ragged grass verges, dog-ear and adrift on the surfaces of the puddles, flat to the gutter stones, mixing with the litter, their shards of colour circling in the leafy-grimy corners of yards.

He was clearly in love with Amber too, and this time it wasn't the usual water off the back of the duck. Instead, the duck, wounded by a hunter and bewildered because half its head had been shot way, and was still tottering about on its webby feet by the side of the pond. From the one side it looked like a duck usually looks. From the other, it was a different story.

Funny, she says leaning against an unexpected warm place in the stone on the threshold of the church and liking the feel of it on her arm. Like, how we overload summer most out of all the seasons, I mean with our expectations of it. Nah, he says and nips the end of his rollie with a finger and thumb till it's out. Summers can take it. That's why they're called summers.

Kärleken var död. Döden var död. En hel massa saker var döda. Vissa, däremot, var det inte, eller i alla fall inte än.

Ha, he says. Well. Crazy weather out You're missing nothing, Pad. One of the worst springs I can remember. Snow up to here just two there. weeks ago. Minus seven. And now this. Twenty nine degrees. You're wrong, she says. One of the loveliest springs I've known. Plants couldn't wait to get going. All that cold. All this green.

It's funny to be sitting on such an uncommunal communal chair.

p 22 end of 2nd paragraph – because her presence is not important- "Compared to those trees around the summerhouse she is the kind of meaningless tree the gets planted in the grassy areas of the car park of a supermarkets.

I like the idea of blue and pink together, Elisabeth said.

The nettles say nothing. The seeds at the tops of the grass stems say nothing. The little white flowers on the tops of their stalks, she doesn't know what they are but they're saying their fresh nothing. The buttercups say it merrily. The gorse says it unexpectedly, a bright yellow nothing, smooth and soft and delicate against the mute green nothing of its barbs.

The hippies wanted peace and love. We wanted Ferraris, blondes and switchblades.

Agnes eyed the plums in the fruit bowl. They were hard as stone, merely decorative this early in the summer. But the color, purple and red, with a yellow pulse beneath the skin, made her mouth water. She felt a pang of sympathy for William Carlos Williams and his swiped plum.

The moon is always jealous of the heat of the day, just as the sun always longs for something dark and deep.

She liked the salty taste of contradiction on her tongue.

Writing a poem, I construct a magenta fan with a photolikeness, enclosed in a central oval, of a beloved relation, with her hair brown that is not to say, before her hair turned grey: it's her essential self. Someone's jealous of the attention I'm paying her in my work because he wants it all for his art which is a pure, gridded, layer of words painted in crosshatched grey monochrome brushstrokes. Your art, he seems to say to me, kisses life's ass. His art asks that his own ass be kissed.

nothing yet has a shadow every- thing is here but pale

You are the Fire Lily", said the Winterking softly. "And I am the Ice King. Does fire melt ice? Or ice melt fire? Or may they come together, fire and ice, neither melted nor quenched?