Quotes About Dark

Paris was dark and damp and cold and quiet. Cafés and restaurants had warm lights burning behind closed doors and fogged windows. The streets were wet and lined with small parked cars. The cars were all misted over with nighttime dew. We walked together south and west and crossed the Seine at the Pont de la Concorde. Turned west again along the Quai d'Orsay. The river was dark and sluggish. Nothing was moving on it. The streets were empty. Nobody was out and about.

Say what you like about melodrama, it beats confusion. The truth is we ought have a chance to say a little something when it's getting dark. We ought to have a closing scene.

But for a long time, altogether unnoticed by his comrades, there had ripened in his soul a dark contempt for mankind; contempt mingled with despair and painful, almost deadly fatigue.

At any rate I'd better be getting out of the wood, for really its coming on very dark. Do you think it's going to rain?' Tweedledum spread a large umbrella over himself and his brother, and looked up into it. 'No, I don't think it is,' he said: 'at least - not under here. Nohow.' 'But it may rain outside?' 'It may - if it chooses,' said Tweedledee: 'we've got no objection. Contrariwise.

Naughty John, Naughty John, does his work with his apron on. Cuts your throat and takes your bones, sells 'em off for a coupla stones.

I do have to wonder what sort of childhood the Grimm brothers endured. They are not a merry bunch of storytellers, what with their children roasted by witches, maidens poisoned by old crones, and whatnot.

But forgiveness...I'll hold on to that fragile slice of hope and keep it close, remembering that in each of us lie good and bad, light and dark, art and pain, choice and regret, cruelty and sacrifice.

And farther still, in the vast prairies mythologized in the American mind, a figure stood shadowed in the dark, biding his time, a scarecrow awaiting harvest.

You are truly Satan's sequined spawn.

But forgiveness... I'll hold on to that fragile slice of hop and keep it close, remembering that in all of us lie good and bad, light and dark, art and pain, choice and regret, cruelty and sacrifice. We're all our own chiaroscuro, our own bit of illusion, fighting to emerge into something solid, something real. We've got to forgive ourselves that. I must remember to forgive myself. Because there's an awful lot of gray to work with. no one can live in the light all the time.

The magazine said to blend. Daisy blended for all she was worth, trying to spread that dark stuff around.

In the end, it's not much of a decision at all. Angelique. I am here to find Angelique. To save a girl. To redeem a sin I can never change. And maybe to chase a bullet I dodged ten years ago. I turn left, down the end of the hall to the fire escape. Then, I vanish into the dark.

Our spiritual life is a venture in the dark, between the soul and God, and no spiritual life is worth the name unless it is so.

The intersection of spiritual, dark music and radical ecology is quite natural.

SPIRITUAL WARRIORS is a terrific voyage. A memorable journey through the light and dark of our lives and ultimately to hope. I loved it.

When you seek through the light you may find what you want to see. When you seek within the dark you will find who you really are.

Shadows are our Dark Selves brought to Light.

I cannot for the life of me see why the umpires, the only two people on a cricket field who are not going to get grass stains on their knees, are the only two people allowed to wear dark trousers.

This kind of search in the dark, with its tense desire, lasting for years, full of foreboding, with it's exhausting change form aspiration to frustration and it's final breakthrough to lucidity, all of this you only know properly if you experienced it.

But the years of anxious searching in the dark, with their intense longing, their alternations of confidence and exhaustion, and the final emergence into the light - only those who have experienced it can understand that.

They do not sweat and whine about their condition. They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins.'' [...] To be a perfect animal and a perfect human - that was the ideal.

He held out his right hand in the moonlight. From the cut on his wrist the blood was still oozing. Every few seconds a drop fell, dark, almost colourless in the dead light. Drop, drop, drop. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. . . He had discovered the Time and Death and God.

But silence and the topless dark Vault in the lights of Luna Park; And Blackpool from the nightly gloom Hollows a bright tumultuous tomb. He put it down again, shook his head, and sighed. What genius I had then! he reflected, echoing the aged Swift. It was nearly six months since the book had been published; he was glad to think he would never write anything of the same sort again. Who could have been reading it, he wondered?

The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices make instruments to plague us; the dark and vicious place where thee he got cost him his eyes