Quotes About Darkness

I wanted to burn her, the wicked witch.

What I mean, he said, is that she attributes so much power to the forces of evil that she seems like a worshiper of the demon. ???? ???? ???? ??????? ??? ??? ???? ?????? ?????? ???? ?????? ???? ???????

We must, therefore, break away once and for all from the metaphors which depict consciousness as a luminous circle round which there is nothing, to its own eyes, but darkness. On the contrary, the shadow is at the centre.

la pauvreté est comme un mal qu'on endort en soi et qui ne donne pas trop de douleur, à condition de ne pas trop bouger. On s'y habitue, on finit par ne plus y prendre garde tant qu'on reste avec elle tapie dans l'obscurité; mais qu'on s'avise de la sortir au grand jour, et on s'effraie, on la voit enfin, si sordide qu'on hésite à l'exposer au soleil. (Ch. XIII)

Silent, she thought that poverty was like a sickness you put to sleep inside you, and it didn't hurt too much as long as you didn't move. You grew used to it, you ended up not paying much attention to it as long as you stayed tucked away with it in the dark; but when you took the notion of going out with it in daylight, it became frightening to the sight, so ugly you could not expose it to the sun.

ahthOOn SSyng! I said. That's farewell. It sounds evil. It is, I answered, and we parted.

Lantern-shine, dim but kind— No starkness in darkness— Even I please the eye. Outside, wind and rain, Weather's fitful wax and wane. Tomorrow's sun will reveal What night conceals. All we lack, regret, know, Forgotten in lamp-oil glow.

I've grown to fond of the stars to be fearful of the night.

Technically, on the spectrum of very bad things, they did nothing truly wicked. But of course, that spectrum has no measure for the greatest of all carnal sins, the kind that occurs before skin touches skin, before wondering turns to yearning, yearning to having, having to holding for dear life, when two people cling to each other so desperately that even when they lie, inches apart, neither is fully satisfied until the light between them turns to darkness.

the nights were dark and full of terrors

In two and a half years' trekking across central Asia, I'd become attuned to the late autumn conditions when the hazards of winter can blow in under the cover of darkness.

When I was at the South Pole, the coldest it got - and I didn't go outside - was minus 111. That was during the winter, so it's dark 24 hours a day, and for some of our jobs, we are required to go outside, even in weather like that.

I'm from Sweden, so I don't enjoy winter at all; there's nothing cute about it.

Fiction writers have long turned to winter to advance bluer palettes, slicker surfaces, and sharper contrasts. The sky darkens, the wind picks up, and flakes start to fall. Horizons shrink. Couples bicker. Cars slide off roads. Obliteration tends to loiter between the sentences.

I'm from Sweden, where it's winter, like, half the year. And it's dark - we barely have any daylight.

Maybe there is something specifically Scandinavian that comes out of the long, dark winters - you have to learn to laugh at misery, in a way.

To love someone is to isolate him from the world, wipe out every trace of him, dispossess him of his shadow, drag him into a murderous future. It is to circle around the other like a dead star and absorb him into a black light.

I am often on guard over the Russians. In the darkness one sees their forms move like stick storks, like great birds. They come close up to the wire fence and lean their faces against it. Their fingers hook round the mesh.

I realised that if I wished to write about the dark and not allow for hope, people would recognise it as false - because hope is the nub of what we are.

It makes sense that a witch lives in a swamp.

The Wicked Witch of the West really scared me as a child.

I definitely do not like Halloween. I don't like masks, creepy clowns, dark things, goblins or witches. They're not just my thing.

Witches were really scary to me as a kid.

The winter solstice has always been special to me as a barren darkness that gives birth to a verdant future beyond imagination, a time of pain and withdrawal that produces something joyfully inconceivable, like a monarch butterfly masterfully extracting itself from the confines of its cocoon, bursting forth into unexpected glory.