Quotes About Light

and I want something else. I'm not even sure what to call it anymore except I know it feels roomy and it's drenched in sunlight and it's weightless and I know it's not cheap. Probably not even real.

I want something else. I'm not even sure what to call it anymore except I know it feels roomy and it's drenched in sunlight and it's weightless and I know it's not cheap. Probably not even real.

In many ways, Navidson's house functions like an immense isolation tank. Deprived of light, change in temperature and any sense of time, the individual begins to create his own sensory [ ], [ ]d depen[ ]ng on the duration of his stay begins to project more and more of [ ] personality on those bare walls and vacant []allways.

There were stars. They burned my eyes.

When he moves, a streetlight stabs him, and the words flow out like blood.

Outside is dark. The kitchen light is loud. It deafens me as I walk towards it.

Shadows of cloud lurked in the water, like holes the sun forgot about.

His hair is like feathers.

It would then be brought abruptly to an end, for the brightness had shown suffering the way.

Those souls are always light because more of them have been put out. More of them have already found their way to other places. This one was sent out by the breath of an accordion, the odd taste of champagne in summer, and the art of promise-keeping.

He switched off the light, came back and sat in the chair. In the darkness, Liesel kept her eyes open. She was watching the words.

I know who you are and I am ready. Not that I want to go, of course, but I will come. Those souls are always light because more of them have been put out.

White light lowered itself into a boxing ring and a crowd stood and murmured--that magical sound of many people talking all at once. How could every person there have so much to say at the same time?

they were able to see the pink bars of light on the snowy banks of Himmel Street's rooftops. "Look at the colors," Papa said. It's hard not to like a man who not only notices the colors, but speaks them.

I walk out into the foyer. It's caked in sunshine.

for the brightness had shown suffering the way.

Quietly, he walked towards it with the matchbox in one hand, the candle in the other.

It's about glowing lights and small things that are big.

His soul sat up. It met me. Those kinds of souls always do—the best ones. The ones who rise up and say, "I know who you are and I am ready. Not that I want to go, of course, but I will come." Those souls are always light because more of them have been put out. More of them have already found their way to other places.

This isn't about words. It's about glowing lights and small things that are big.

He remained shrouded in his uniform as the graying light arm-wrestled the sky.

Byly tam hvÄ›zdy. Pálily mÄ› z nich o?i.

I don't write stories for you, signora. Not for Italians. For the others. I write them for the outsiders. The ones like me. The ones who long to wander over the old stones, watch the light. Those who, even for a while, want to be in the Italy they dream of.

The boy was twelve, reveling in the strange dust-smelling murk of a New Orleans library, watching motes flash gold in a beam of sun. He loved the ceiling lights on chains and the table lamps with their green glass shades. The room was as beautiful as another world.