Quotes About Light

Then I realised that what I saw was a full moon rising just as the sun was going down. Each of them was standing on its edge, with the most wonderful light between them. It seemed as if you could touch it, as if there were palpable currents of light passing back and forth, or as if there were great taut skeins of light suspended between them... And that grave, and my father and I, were exactly between them, which seemed amazing to me at the time...

I believe that the old man did indeed have far too narrow an idea of what a vision might be. He may, so to speak, have been too dazzled by the great light of his experience to realize that an impressive sun shines on us all.

He may, so to speak, have been too dazzled by the great light of his experience to realize that an impressive sun shines on us all.

This morning a splendid dawn passed over our house on its way to Kansas. This morning Kansas rolled out of its sleep into a sunlight grandly announced, proclaimed throughout heaven—one more of the very finite number of days that this old prairie has been called Kansas, or Iowa. But it has all been one day, that first day. Light is constant, we just turn over in it. So every day is in fact the selfsame evening and morning.

That stab in the heart she felt when she woke, and the panicky doubt that her life was in her grasp, not fraud or failure, not entirely - that was a brief misery and one she could set aside by putting the light on and reading for a while. She used to ask herself, What more could I wish? But she always distrusted that question, because she knew there were limits to her experience that precluded her knowing what there was to be wished.

I love the prairie! So often I have seen the dawn come and the light flood over the land and everything turn radiant at once, that word good so profoundly affirmed in my soul that I am amazed I should be allowed to witness such a thing.

The moon looks wonderful in this warm evening light, just as a candle flame looks beautiful in the light of morning. Light within light.

September 1, 1964: I am going mad with love, mad. He was here, here next to me. Thousands of uncovered things stand before me Before Predrag [her first boyfriend] and me. Uncovering them, finding that sound, that forgotten ring, that drop of hope before the first light~ without an agreement, without any agreement, still untouched, touched by nothing In peace, In self.

With a great effort the Don opened his eyes to see his son once more. He smelled the garden, the yellow shield of light smote his eyes, and he whispered, Life is so beautiful.

He was in extremis. He smelled the garden, the yellow shield of light smote his eyes, and he whispered, "Life is so beautiful.

Evocaba el sol, la luz blanca que bañaba todo el año las calles de la ciudad y las conservaba tibias, acogedoras, la excitación de los domingos, los paseos a Eten, la arena amarilla que abrasaba, el purísimo cielo azul. Levantaba la vista: nubes grises por todos partes, ni un punto claro. Regresaba a su casa, caminando despacio, arrastrando los pies como viejo.

ojos profundos y de luz vivísima y se movía en el agua como un pez.

It was always surprising to me how ferociously the public mourned a beautiful stranger -- especially one from a famous family. Into that empty form they could unload the grief and regret of their own lives, be rid of it, feel lucky and light for a few days, comforted by the though, At least it wasn't me.

WELCOME TO THE BLACKBOARDS This is the Cordovites' premier wormhole, where time ticks backward, trees grow down, light eats itself, fear is an opening, and life is Sovereign, Deadly, Perfect.

When it was daylight, we'd been sitting on a stoop watching the street get light. She mentioned the light took eight minutes to leave the sun and reach us. You couldn't help but love that light traveling so far through the loneliest of spaces to get here, to come so far. It was like we were the only two people in the world.

I took a step inside to get a better look and realized the man was actually Christ, the way he appeared in Sunday-school classrooms: milky complexion, starched blue dressing gown, a beard trimmed as painstakingly as a bonsai tree. He was doing what he was always doing: cupping blinding light in his hands like he was trying to warm up after a long day of downhill skiing.

He seemed about to ask me something else, but instead turned, strolling across the parking lot, pulling out his cigarettes. It was after four o'clock. The sun had loosened its grip on the world, letting the shadows get sloppy, the light, thawed and soft.

Celestial light, you are my choice, my last and my best choice.

When you write from the heart, you not only light the dark path of your readers, you light your own way as well.

Death is not extinguishing the light. It is putting out the lamp because the dawn has come.

As it somehow always manages before the winter solstice, but never after, the early darkness was cheerful and promising, even for those who had nothing.

Rigel, Betelgeuse, and Orion. There was no finer church, no finer choir, than the stars speaking in silence to the many consumptives silently condemned, a legion upon the dark rooftops. The wind came down from the north like a runner in lacrosse, violent and hard, to batter every living thing. They were there, each one alone in conversation with the stars, mining ephemeral love from cold and distant light.

And Peter Lake knew that these things were nothing in themselves but the means by which to remember those he had loved, and to remind him that the power of the love he had known was repeated a million times a million times over, from one soul to another--all worthy, all holy, none ever lost. He glided through the illusions that flashed bravely on the smoke, and he was touched very deeply by the will of things to live in the light.

Because I don't need oxygen. I've already come to all my conclusions. I'm just slowly gliding down. Someday I'll be as light as a feather.