Quotes About Darkness

He watches, pale and unwashed. He can neither read nor write and in him broods already a taste for mindless violence.

We might have very different notions about the nature of the oncoming night. But as darkness descends does it matter?

It cracked and boomed about and he pointed out the darkened heart within him and cried for light. If there be any art in the weathers of this earth. Or char these bones to coal. If you can, if you can. A blackened rag in the rain. He sat with his back to a tree and watched the storm move on over the city. Am I a monster, are there monsters in me?

Sheddan once said that evil has no alternate plan. It is simply incapable of assuming failure.

My railings against the platonists are a thing of the past. Assuming at last that one could, what would be the advantage of ignoring the transcendent nature of mathematical truths. There is nothing else that all men are compelled to agree upon, and when the last light in the last eye fades to black and takes all speculation with it forever I think it could even be that these truths will glow for just a moment in the final light. Before the dark and the cold claim everything.

Night fell long and cool through the woods about him and a spectral quietude set in. As if something were about that crickets and nightbirds held in dread.

He walked out on the prairie and stood holding his hat like some supplicant to the darkness over them all and he stood there for a long time.

White Was he killed? Black I hope so. We buried him.

evil has no alternate plan. It is simply incapable of assuming failure.

Stark gray world appeared again and again out of the night in the shrouded flare of the lightning.

On the day of his death he would see her face and he could hope to carry that beauty into the darkness with him, the last pagan on earth, singing softly on his pallet in an unknown tongue.

The darker picture is always the correct one. When you read the history of the world you are reading a saga of bloodshed and greed and folly the import of which is impossible to ignore. And yet we imagine that the future will somehow be different. I've no idea why we are even still here but in all probability we will not be here much longer.

Cormac McCarthy

She always did like tales of adventure-stories full of brightness and darkness. She could tell you the names of all King Arthur's knights, and she knew everything about Beowulf and Grendel, the ancient gods and the not-quite-so-ancient heroes. She liked pirate stories, too, but most of all she loved books that had at least a knight or a dragon or a fairy in them. She was always on the dragon's side by the way.

Down there the nights are bright and nobody believes in the Devil.

The night swallowed him up like a thieving fox.

The night belongs to beasts of prey, and always has. It's easy to forget that when you're indoors, protected by light and solid walls.

Sometimes Dustfinger thought Basta's constant fear of curses and sudden disaster probably arose from his terror of the darkness within himself, which made him assume that the rest of the world must be exactly the same.

What was this yearning, tearing at her insides like hunger and thirst? It couldn't be love. Love was warm and soft, like a bed of leaves. But this was dark, like the shade under a poisonous shrub, and it was hungry. So hungry. It must have some other name, just as there couldn't be the same word for life and death, or for moon and sun

Everyone is small at night.

Secrets. They add to the darkness of the world but they also make you want to find out more...

claimed to be the man who wrote a certain book – what was its name again? Inkheart. Fenoglio rubbed his aching back. Its title is Inkheart because it's about a man whose wicked heart is as black as ink, filled with darkness and evil. I still like the title.

Night was fading over the fields as if the rain had washed the darkness out of the hem of its garment.

The darkness of the world made no distinctions; it entered its palaces as it did its huts.