Quotes About Morning

My daddy always told me to just do the best you knew how and tell the truth. He said there was nothin to set a man's mind at ease like wakin up in the morning and not havin to decide who you were. And if you done somethin wrong just stand up and say you done it and say you're sorry and get on with it. Don't haul stuff around with you.

Remember her hair in the morning before it was pinned, black, rampant, savage with loveliness. As if she slept in perpetual storm.

The nights were blinding cold and casket black and the long reach of the morning had a terrible silence to it.

Peering down into the water where the morning sun fashioned wheels of light, coronets fanwise in which lay trapped each twig, each grain of sediment, long flakes and blades of light in the dusty water sliding away like optic strobes where motes sifted and spun.

Rich dreams now which he was loathe to wake from. Things no longer known in the world. The cold drove him forth to mend the fire. Memory of her crossing the lawn toward the house in the early morning in a thin rose gown that clung to her breasts. He thought each memory recalled must do some violence to its origins. As in a party game. Say the words and pass it on. So be sparing. What you alter in the remembering has yet a reality, known or not.

To watch these things issuing from the otherwise mute pastoral morning is a man at the barn door. He is small, unclean, unshaven. He moves in the dry chaff among the dust and slats of sunlight with a constrained truculence. Saxon and Celtic bloods. A child of God much like yourself perhaps. Wasps pass through the laddered light from the barnslats in a succession of strobic moments, gold and trembling between black and black, like fireflies in the serried upper gloom.

Toward early morning he woke, sat up quickly and looked about him. It was still dark and the fire had long since died, still dark and quiet with that silence that seems to be of itself listening, an astral quiet where planets collide soundlessly, beyond the auricular dimension altogether. He listened. Above the black ranks of trees the mid-summer sky arched cloudless and coldly starred. He lay back and stared at it and after a while he slept.

He walked to the top of a rise and crouched and watched the day accrue. The chary dawn, the cold illucid world.

The nights were blinding cold and casket black and the long reach of the morning had a terrible silence to it. Like a dawn before battle.

He said there was nothin to set a man's mind at ease like wakin up in the morning and not havin to decide who you were.

Lejos, en la llanura, en la noche sin orilla, podían ver como en un reflejo de su propio fuego en un lago oscuro el fuego de los vaqueros a unos ocho kilómetros. Por la noche llovió y la lluvia silbó en el fuego y los caballos se acercaron desde la oscuridad con sus ojos rojos parpadeando inquietos y por la mañana hacía frío y todo era gris y el sol tardó mucho en salir.

He woke before dawn and watched the gray day break. Slow and half opaque.

When he woke in the woods in

Tu credi che quando ti svegli la mattina quello che è successo ieri non conta. Invece è l'unica cosa che conta. La tua vita è fatta dei giorni che hai vissuto. Non c'è altro. Magari pensi di poter scappare via e cambiare nome o non so cosa, di ricominciare daccapo. E poi una mattina ti svegli, guardi il soffitto, e indovina chi è la persona sdraiata nel letto?

What's the bravest thing you ever did? He spat into the road a bloody phlegm. Getting up this morning, he said.

Ac?tt?, deÄŸil mi? dedi oÄŸlan. Evet. Ac?tt?. Sahiden cesur musun? Orta karar. Yapt???n en cesurca ÅŸey ne? Yola kanl? bir balgam tükürdü. Bu sabah uyanmak, dedi. Sahiden mi? Hay?r. Bana ald?rma. Gel hadi, gidelim.

Long before morning I knew that what I was seeking to discover was a thing I'd always known. That all courage was a form of constancy. That it was always himself that the coward abandoned first. After this all other betrayals came easily.

In the morning he sat with his feet crossed under him and watched the sun rise. It sat swagged and red in the smoke like a matrix of molten iron swung wobbling up out of a furnace.

There was nothing to set a man's mind at ease like waking up in the morning and not having to decide who you were.

You really don't understand the first thing about writing...for one thing, early in the morning is the worst possible time. the brain is like a wet sponge at that hour. And for another, real writing is a question of staring into space and waiting for the right ideas.

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

It was a chilly morning after the night's rain, and the sun hung in the sky like a pale coin lost by someone high up in the clouds.

The road went ever more steeply downhill. Overhead, the branches of the trees intertwined. It was a still, windless morning, cloudy and damp.

For one thing, early in the morning is the worst possible time. The brain is like a wet sponge at that hour. And for another, real writing is a question of staring into space and waiting for the right ideas.