Quotes About Darkness

A swift carriage, of a dark night, rattling with four horses over roads that one can't see--that's my idea of happiness.

She couldn't have told you whether it was because she was afraid, or because such a voice in the darkness seemed of necessity a boon; but she listened to him as she had never listened before; his words dropped deep into her soul.

he uttered the cry of a creature hurled over an abyss...

I seemed to float not into clearness, but into a darker obscure, and within a minute there had come to me out of my very pity the appalling alarm of his perhaps being innocent. It was for the instant confounding and bottomless, for if he were innocent, what then on earth was I?

She is like a revolving lighthouse; pitch darkness alternating with a dazzling brilliancy!

he felt the whole vision turn to darkness and his very feet give way. His head went round; he was going; he had gone.

When once the gate is opened to self-torture, the whole army of fiends files in.

And to ply them with that evil still, to keep up the work of demons, is what brings the others back.

Oscura como la media noche dentro de su vestido negro, su desfigurada belleza y su indecible aflicción

What was at all events not permanently hidden from him was a truth much less invidious about his years of darkness. It was the strange scheme of things again: the years of darkness had been needed to render possible the years of light.

Esta vez era otra persona…, una figura de inconfundible maldad: una mujer vestida de negro, pálida y horrible… ¡Oh, qué aire el suyo, qué cara…! Estaba del otro lado del lago. Yo estaba allí con la niña, muy tranquila en ese momento, cuando de repente apareció.

He saw the Jungle of his life and saw the lurking Beast; then, while he looked, perceived it, as by a stir of the air, rise, huge and hideous, for the leap that was to settle him. His eyes darkened--it was close; and, instinctively turning, in his hallucination, to avoid it, he flung himself, face down, on the tomb.

Y]ou are passing through a darkness in which I myself in my ignorance see nothing but that you have been made wretchedly ill by it; but it is only a darkness, it is not an end, or the end. Don't think, don't feel, any more than you can help, don't conclude or decide—don't do anything but wait.

He saw the Jungle of his life and saw the lurking Beast; then, while he looked, perceived it, as by a stir of the air, rise, huge and hideous, for the leap that was to settle him. His eyes darkened—it was close; and, instinctively turning, in his hallucination, to avoid it, he flung himself, on his face, on the tomb.

She may be lying in bed reading a book, she may be making love with a prize fighter, or she may be running like mad through a field of stubble, one shoe one, one shoe off, a man named Corn Cob pursuing her hotly. Wherever she is I am standing in complete darkness; her absence blots me out.

No matter where you go, no matter what you touch, there is cancer and syphilis. It is written in the sky; it flames and dances, like an evil portent. It has eaten into our souls and we are nothing but a dead thing like the moon.

Life was a perpetual black fuck about a fixed pole of insomnia.

Who am I? What am I doing here? I fall between the cold walls of human malevolence, a white figure fluttering, sinking down through the cold lake, a mountain of skulls above me. I settle down to the cold latitudes, the chalk steps washed with indigo. The earth in its dark corridors knows my step, feels a foot abroad, a wing stirring, a gasp and a shudder.

Ni una sola vez habían abierto la puerta que conduce hasta el alma; ni una sola vez se les ocurrió dar un salto a ciegas en la obscuridad.

I was lonely amidst a world of things lit up by phosphorescent flashes of cruelty. I was delirious with an energy which could not be unleashed except in the service of death and futility.

Europe – medieval, grotesque, monstrous: a symphony in B-mol.

but it was night and the night is always less cruel than the day.

I began in absolute chaos and darkness, in a bog or swamp of ideas and emotions and experiences. Even now I do not consider myself a writer, in the ordinary sense of the word. I am a man telling the story of his life, a process which appears more and more inexhaustible as I go on.

How far is it between light and dark? They aren't even in the same room. If there's any light there at all, then it isn't dark. Likewise, to live in the state of sin means that you're completely removed from the God of light—and desperately in need of a Savior. Eternity