Quotes About Light

Properly, we should read for power. Man reading should be man intensely alive. The book should be a ball of light in one's hand.

It was only a sunny smile, and little it cost in the giving, but like morning light it scattered the night and made the day worth living.

In a world grown dark with deceit there there are many who are blinded and few who can hold up a light so that we can see the way. More important, so that we can look at ourselves, as well as others, and know how similar we are to the herd.

The path we each travel can be very dark, indeed; it can turn unexpectedly, and we can't see around corners. Most of us, I think, pray for more light upon our personal roads—not to see far ahead or to foretell the future, but to illuminate the next step, which is all we can take. No one goes along his road in seven-league boots.

The light is always there; we ourselves cause the obscurity, for we cast very long shadows: selfishness, envy, vanity, fear, unkindness—the list is endless, and we can all add to it. . . . I do not think that in this world, we can help casting shadows, but perhaps by conscious effort—through prayer and hard work—we can, during our lifetimes, shorten the shadow and increase the light.

As a vamp killer for hire, I travel light.

On the far horizon waved some flicker of light My heart, a city of suffering, awoke in a state of dream My eyes, turning restless, still dreaming, the morning, dawning in this vacuous abode of separation.

I need more dreams and less life I need that dark in a little more light

It's always the darkest just before the glorious dawn.

Hazel always used to say There's not enough darkness in the entire universe to snuff out the light of just one little candle.

praeter perpetuas Aetnae lampades ignis atque flammarum». Così

I even see the cinema itself as a woman, with its alternation of light and darkness, of appearing and disappearing images

Every song is the remains of love. Every light the remains of time. A knot of time. And every sigh the remains of a cry. - Every Song

Today in my heart a vague trembling of stars, but my way is lost in the soul of the mist. Light lops my wings.

You can't look at yourself in the ocean. Your looks fall apart like tendrils of light. Night on earth. - The Great Sadness

The golden girl bathed in the water and the water turned gold

Wish" Just your hot heart, nothing more. My Paradise, a field, no nightingales, no strings, a river, discrete, and a little fountain. Without the spurs, of the wind, in the branches, without the star, that wants to be a leaf. An enormous light that will be the flow of the Other, in a field of broken gazes. A still calm where our kisses, sonorous circles of echoes, will open, far-off. And your hot heart, nothing more.

My voice is stained with bloody light, and I see irises dry up at its touch; in my song I wear the finery of a white-faced clown. Love, sweet Love, hides under a spider. The sun, another spider, hides me under legs of gold. I will not find my fortune, for I am like Love himself, whose arrows are tears, and whose quiver is the heart...

You have the blood of a poet. You have that and always will. You show, in the middle of savage things (that I like), the gentleness of your heart, that is so full of pain and light.

There are souls that you feel to lean forward to, like a sun-filled window

También sobre el alma nieva. La nieve del alma tiene copos de besos y escenas que se hundieron en la sombra o en la luz del que las piensa.

As I lose myself in the heart of certain children, I have lost myself in the sea many times. Ignorant of the water I go seeking a death full of light to consume me. — Federico García Lorca, from "Gacela De La Huida (Garcela Of The Flight)," The Selected Poems of Federico García Lorca . Trans. Stephen Spender and J. L. Gili. (New Directions; unknown edition May 17, 2005) Originally published December 3rd 1915.

Angel and Muse approach from without; the Angel sheds light and the Muse gives form (Hesiod learned of them).  Gold leaf or chiton-folds: the poet finds his models in his laurel coppice. But the Duende, on the other hand, must come to life in the nethermost recesses of the blood.

The light is buried under chains and noisesin impudent challenge of rootless science.Through the suburbs sleepless people stagger,as though just delivered from a shipwreck of blood.