Quotes About Light

It is not so much the science of snow for me, anymore. I'd rather just look at it. The light, the way it absorbs sound. The way we feel as if the more that falls, the more we are forgiven.

He made such a faint presence. It was like being in the room with a feather.

He wants to tell her what he has learned about the miracles of light, the way a day's light fluxes in tides: pale and gleaming at dawn, the glare of noon, the gold of evening, the promise of twilight -- every second of every day has its own magic. He wants to tell her that when things vanish they become something else, in death we rise again in the blades of grass, the splitting bodies of seeds.

But over these past few weeks, her existence has become tolerable. At least, out on the beaches, her privation and fear are rinsed away by wind and color and light. Most

what I want to write about today is the sea. It contains so many colors. Silver at dawn, green at noon, dark blue in the evening. Sometimes it looks almost red. Or it will turn the color of old coins. Right now the shadows of clouds are dragging across it, and patches of sunlight are touching down everywhere. White strings of gulls drag over it like beads. It is my favorite thing, I think, that I have ever seen.

From outside comes a light tinkling, fragments of glass, perhaps, falling into the streets. It sounds both beautiful and strange, as though gemstones were raining from the sky.

A corner of the night sky, beyond a wall of trees, blooms red. In the lurid, flickering light, he sees that the airplane was not alone, that the sky teems with them, a dozen swooping back and forth, racing in all directions, and in a moment of disorientation, he feels that he's looking not up but down, as though a spotlight has been shined into a wedge of bloodshot water, and the sky has become the sea, and the airplanes are hungry fish, harrying their prey in the dark.

Slowly, gratefully, the world settles. From outside comes a light tinkling, fragments of glass, perhaps, falling into the streets. It sounds both beautiful and strange, as though gemstones were raining from the sky.

He takes her hand to help her over the piles. No shells fall and no rifles crack and the light is soft and shot through with ash. Jutta, he thinks, I finally listened.

The moonlight shines and billows; the broken clouds scud above the trees. Leaves fly everywhere. But the moonlight stays unmoved by the wind, passing through clouds, through air, in what seems to Werner like impossibly slow imperturbable rays. They hang across the buckling grass. Why doesn't the wind move the light?

Plants eat light, father says, but even plants can overeat.

suave y con acento. «Niños, el cerebro está envuelto por una oscuridad total —dice la voz—. Flota en un líquido transparente en el interior del cráneo y jamás recibe luz. Pero a pesar de eso el mundo que construye en nuestra mente está lleno de luz, rebosante de colores y de movimiento. ¿Cómo puede ser que el cerebro, que jamás conoce una chispa de luz, construya en nuestro interior un

Sometimes, in the darkness, Werner thinks the cellar may have its own faint light, perhaps emanating from the rubble, the space going a bit redder as the August day above them progresses toward dusk. After a while, he is learning, even total darkness is not quite darkness; more than once he thinks he can see his spread fingers when he passes them in front of his eyes.

Right now the shadows of clouds are dragging across it, and patches of sunlight are touching down everywhere.

Here is this! Here is this! Ecco Roma! Bursting out of the sun, streaking through space, skirting Venus, just over eight minutes old, but eternal, too, infinite—here comes the light, nameless and intangible, streaming 93 million unobstructed miles through the implacable black vacuum to break itself against a wall, a cornice, a column. It drenches, it crenellates, it textures.

Starlight rains onto every crenellation.

But the moonlight stays unmoved by the wind, passing through clouds, through air, in what seems to Werner like impossibly slow, imperturbable rays. They hang across the buckling grass. Why doesn't the wind move the light?

A spark in the night.

He understands that people will want to hear something, but not the truth: they'll want a story of perseverance and pluck, good overcoming evil, a homecoming song about a hero who brought light into dark places.

What light shines at night! He never knew. Light will blind him.

Rain falls so lightly that it seems indistinguishable from fog.

So really, children, mathematically, all the light is invisible

Como chamamos a luz visível? Chamamos de cor. Mas o espectro eletromagnético corre ao zero em uma direção e ao infinito na outra, então, na verdade, crianças, matematicamente, toda luz é invisível.

Toutes ces fenêtres dans le noir... C'est comme si la ville était devenue une bibliothèque de livres écrits dans une langue inconnue : et les maisons, des rayonnages de volumes devenus illisibles en l'absence de lumière. Mais il y a cette machine au grenier, qui fonctionne de nouveau. Une étincelle dans la nuit.