Quotes About Dusk

He looked down at Bosch through Ray-Bans, though it was well into dusk and a sky of burnt orange clouds was reflected in his mirrored lenses.

What lives undimmed in Clarissa's mind more than three decades later is a kiss at dusk on a patch of dead grass, and a walk around the pond as mosquitoes droned in the darkening air. There is still that singular perfection, and it's perfect in part because it seemed, at the time, so clearly to promise more. Now she knows. That was the moment. There has been no other.

In darkness, in any light after dusk, you can slit a vein and the blood is black.

Where the sun sets, love rises!

We stay this way until twilight colours the window and the hour calls me home

It's not dark yet But it's getting there

Por la ventana se veían los largos regueros de lágrimas del crepúsculo en las negras mejillas de las nubes.

Tiny white flowers sprinkled the upper part of the gown like glimpses of stars at dusk, while the gathered waist and skirt darkened into solid twilight.

This was the best time of the day, when I could lie in the vague twilight, drifting off to sleep, making up dreams inside my head the way they should go.

Dusk hoods me in blue now, like a Mary. O colour of distance and forgetfulness!

I have gone at dusk through narrow streets and watched the smoke that rises from the pipes of lonely men leaning out of windows

Dusk came to the third day and killed it with a blue sword. Always it was the same, and the day, always taken by surprise, never escaped, but bled and swooned and shut its eyes in blackness.

The sun was almost gone, and soon it would be the night. And then night forever. But not quite yet.

At midday, beaten almost flat by the hammer of the sun, the desert lay in the perfect imitation of one near death. A deception. Life lurked and thrived in its own way just beneath the skin of the desert. Husks, buried shards, last treasures, veins of water, and magic. While at dusk, the dying thing would rise and shake itself, and stretch to receive the cold balm of the stars.

with the sun sliding out of the sky like spit off a wall . . .

Sunset was an hour off but the clouds were hanging low, sponging up the last of the light.

as soon as you feel you're getting a handle on things, the day is done, the night falls, and the light goes out.

They didn't speak as the sun slowly sank before them. Why was it most colorful when it was about to vanish for the night? Was it angry at being forced belong the horizon? Or was it a showman, giving a performance before retiring?

The day lingered and the last calls of the last birds sounded, in a flushed sky, from the old trees.

He gave me a look, but in the dusk I couldn't make out very well what it conveyed.  Then he bent over his mother, kissing her.  "My news isn't particularly satisfactory.  I'm going for you." "Oh you humbug!" she replied.  But she was of course delighted.

The sun is setting fast. The colors die. They shift from purple to dried blood, from nacre to bister, from cool dead grays to pigeon shit.

The moon had never been as bright as the shine it was granting the sky with, committing every moment until sunrise.

The sun rises low - if it rises at all - and hovers close to the horizon, barely skirting the hilltops before losing heart and sinking once more into the icy abyss of night.

Twilight, again. Another ending. No matter how perfect the day is, it always has to end.