Quotes About Darkness

I am not the most courageous guy in the world outside of the court. Being alone in the dark is something I don't like.

There is a dark side. I tend not to be as optimistic as Mary Richards. I have an anger in me that I carry from my childhood experiences - I expect a lot of myself and I'm not too kind to myself.

I'm so proud of myself. I worked with anger, with the darkest things in the world.

But grief is not a force and has no power to hold. You only bear it. Love is what carries you, for it is always there, even in the dark, or most in the dark, but shining out at times like gold stitches in a piece of embroidery.

After more darkness and silence, I said, "Well, do you believe in the informed decision?" More darkness and silence. "No!" I envy his certainty! He understood that a determined life had its limits. "I had a wonderful life and I had nothing to do with it"—well, now I can say that, too. There is this sense of being on your own path.

But I would have a darkness in my mind like the dark the dead calf makes for a time on the grass where he lies, and will make in the earth as he is carried down. May all dead things lie down in me and be at peace, as in the ground.

I have thrown away my lantern, and I can see the dark.

Behind us the walls of the house were dark; the lighted windows shone as if they were floating and might twist or slant or change places.

All I needed was to be alone and quiet and in the dark, so that my mind could concentrate itself of fearful things, and it could not be unconcentrated sometimes until daylight.

History goes blind and in darkness, neither sees nor is seen, nor is known except as a carrion marked with unintelligible wounds; dragging its dead body, living, yet to be born, it moves heavily to its glories. It tramples the little towns, forgets their names.

We sell the world to buy fire, our way lighted by burning men, and that has bent my mind and made me think of darkness and wish for the dumb life of roots.

The dark Again has prayed the light to come Down into it, to animate And move it in its heaviness. So what was still and dark wakes up, Becomes intelligent, moves, names Itself by hunger and by kind...

In a darkened world no longer illuminated by the light of this center [God], technical advances are scarcely more than despairing attempts to make Hell a more agreeable place to live in. This must be particularly emphasized against those who think that by spreading the civilization of science and technology even to the uttermost ends of the earth, they can furnish all the essential preconditions for a golden age. One cannot escape the Devil so easily as that.

I am fascinated by the idea that our civilization is like a thin layer of ice upon a deep ocean of chaos and darkness.

If I look into the wings, I can see Mom standing like a statue, Medea or Lady Macbeth, one of those tragic horrors, her face zombified by the steely reflected light from my funeral pyre.

Through the dense din, I say, we heard him shout I see your lights! But ours had long died out.

I am the enemy you killed, my friend I knew you in this dark, for so you frowned Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed I parried, but my hands were loath and cold Let us sleep now.

Darker and darker, he said; farther and farther yet. Death takes the good, the beautiful, and the young - and spares me. The Pestilence that wastes, the Arrow that strikes, the Sea that drowns, the Grave the closes over Love and Hope, are steps of my journey, and take me nearer and nearer to the End.

The evening advanced. The shadows lengthened. The waters of the lake grew pitchy black. The gliding of the ghostly swans became rare and more rare.

The bleak autumn wind was still blowing, and the solemn, surging moan of it in the wood was dreary and awful to hear through the night silence. Issac felt strangely wakeful. He resolved, as he lay down in bed, to keep the candle alight until he began to grow sleepy; for there was something unendurably depressing in the bare idea of lying awake in the darkness, listening to the dismal, ceaseless moan of the wind in the wood. (The Dream Woman)

I feel for all faiths the warm sympathy of one who has come to learn that even the trust in reason is a precarious faith, and that we are all fragments of darkness groping for the sun. I know no more about the ultimates than the simplest urchin in the streets.

a bonnet full of black feathers, as if a raven had wandered onto her hat and died of pure wretchedness.

O Rose, thou art sick. The invisible worm That flies in the night In the howling storm Has found out thy bed Of crimson joy, And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy.

Cruelty has a human heart, And Jealousy a human face;