Quotes About Light

It's been a long time since I wanted to die, it makes me feel like taking off my skin suit and seeing how my light flies all on its own, neon and bouncy like a wannabe star.

The floor consisted of the most colorful marble that is found in our mountains. The slabs overlapped so well that scarcely a joint could be seen; the marble was smoothed and polished very finely and the colors so arranged that the floor gave the impression of a lovely picture. Moreover it gleamed and shimmered in the light that was streaming in from the windows.

Love, like light, is a thing that is enacted better than defined: we know it afterward by the traces it leaves on paper.

Our mission at Christmas is not to get stuff for people to open on Christmas morning. It is to be people of hope who let Jesus' light shine through them.

Our mission at Christmas is not to get stuff for people to open on Christmas morning. It is to be people of hope who let Jesus' light shine through them, who act as his witnesses so that others see him in us, who offer hope and help, who pray and work so that our world looks more like the kingdom Jesus proclaimed.

Why didn't God do anything to stop it? Here is God's answer: "I did do something. I sent Jesus to be the light so you could see what to do. He came to bring good news to the poor, to set the prisoners free, and to unfasten every yoke that burdens your fellow children and holds them down.

The light in that room was a kind of malpractice.

Against the monster, I've always wanted meaning. Not for its own sake, because in the usual course of things, who needs the self-consciousness of it? Let meaning be immanent, noted in passing, if at all. But that won't do when the monster has its funnel driven into the back of your head and is sucking the light coming through your eyes straight out of you into the mouth of oblivion. So like a cripple I long for what others don't notice they have: ordinary meaning.

The light, the sky, the water, they were all things you looked through during the day. At night, they were things you looked into. You looked into the stars, you looked into dark rollers and the surprising platinum flash of their caps. No one ever stared at the tip of a cigarette in the daylight hours...

The darkness inside your head is something your imagination fills with stories that have nothing to do with the real darkness around you.

A little season of love and laughter,Of light and life, and pleasure and pain,And a horror of outer darkness after,And dust returneth to dust again.

Je?li, ?a?uj?c ?mierci dobrego dziedzica, Lud zakupion? ?wiec? stawia mu na grobie, W cieniach wieczno?ci ja?niej b?yszczy si? ta ?wiéca Ni? tysi?c lamp w niech?tnej palonych ?a?obie.

O dark dark dark. It was always dark and it would always be dark and it always had been dark - or there would have been no need for the brightness of Marguerite's company.

The Neanderthals were a proto-species, an embryonic light that flickered in evolutionary time, but was not strong enough to stand across epochs.

In the distant future I see open fields for far more important researches … Light will be thrown on the origin of man and his history.' 'Chapter 14: Recapitulation and Conclusion' in The Origin of Species by Charles Darwin, 1859

She would rather light candles than curse the darkness and her glow has warmed the world.

A fog of despair so pervaded the ghetto that the smallest gesture of rebellion could seem like a bold, piercing light. Bad, said with a fond expression, was almost always a compliment.

If I'm lonely it must be the loneliness of waking first, of breathing dawns' first cold breath on the city of being the one awake in a house wrapped in sleep If I'm lonely it's with the rowboat ice-fast on the shore in the last red light of the year that knows what it is, that knows it's neither ice nor mud nor winter light but wood, with a gift for burning from "Song

If I'm lonely it's with the rowboat ice-fast on the shore in the last red light of the year that knows what it is, that knows it's neither ice nor mud nor winter light but wood, with a gift for burning

Freedom. It isn't once, to walk out under the Milky Way, feeling the rivers of light, the fields of dark--freedom is daily, prose-bound, routine remembering. Putting together inch by inch the starry worlds. From all the lost collections.

And yet, protest it if we will, Some corner of the mind retains The medieval man, who still Keeps watch upon those starry skeins And drives us out of doors at night To gaze at anagrams of light.

We did this. Conceived of each other, conceived each other in darkness which I remember as drenched in light.           I want to call this, life.

Freedom. It isn't once, to walk out under the Milky Way, feeling the rivers of light, the fields of dark— freedom is daily, prose-bound, routine remembering. Putting together, inch by inch the starry worlds. From all the lost collections.

The Path that leadeth on is lighted by one fire - the light of daring burning in the heart. The more one dares, the more he shall obtain.