Quotes About Twilight

It was at the end of the day, at twilight--the hour we call "between a dog and a wolf.

Forse è scoppiata, la Bomba, fuori dalla mia coscienza. Anzi, è così certamente. E la fine del Mondo è già accaduta: una cosa muta, calata nel controluce del crepuscolo. Ombra, chi opera in questa èra. Ah, sacro Novecento, regione dell'anima in cui l'Apocalisse è un vecchio evento!

When I get recognized for 'Twilight,' it's usually a teenage girl, and they're usually really loud. So it certainly feels like I get recognized the most from that, but it could just be because of the nature of how vocal those fans are.

It's like, 'Twilight' was voted the worst movie of all time, and I'm like,'Can I please have the worst movie of all time? Please? Half of that?'

How quickly darkness falls.

The sky slowly pulled up its blue dress to reveal night.

I always imagine them at nightfall, in the dusk of a slum or a vacant lot, in that long, quiet moment when things are gradually left alone, with their backs to the sunset, and when colors are like memories or premonitions of other colors. We must not be too prodigal with our angels; they are the last divinities we harbor, and they might fly away.

I would say, however, that romantic sentiment is a keen and pathetic sense of time, a few hours of amorous delight, the idea that everything passes away; a deeper sentiment for autumn, for twilight, for the passing nature of our own lives.

Lo recuerdo (yo no tengo derecho a pronunciar ese verbo sagrado, sólo un hombre en la tierra tuvo derecho y ese hombre ha muerto) con una oscura pasionaria en la mano, viéndola como nadie la ha visto, aunque la mirara desde el crepúsculo del día hasta el de la noche, toda una vida entera.

En busca de la tarde fui apurando en vano las calles. Ya estaban los zaguanes entorpecidos de sombra.

cabeza era un jirón más. En el crepúsculo

I remember him (I have no right to utter this sacred verb, only one man on earth had that right and he is dead) with a dark passion flower in hand, seeing it as no one has ever seen it, though he might look at it from the twilight of dawn til that of evening, a whole lifetime.

Desde o crepúsculo do dia até ao dia da noite, toda uma vida inteira.

The bats inebriate the sky . . .

Shape? Does a fog have shape? Does the twilight? Does the onset of darkness?

And in a sunless realm, the sun rose at last.

Beyond twilight comes a beautiful night, the kind of night the weary dream of. And to all my good friends, to those who have already gone to the back side of the mirror, I bow my head.

I can see myself sitting all day in my chair, immersed in lives, plots, and sentences, intoxicated by words and chimeras, paralyzed by satisfaction and contentment, reading until the deepening twilight, until I can no longer make out the words, until my mind begins to wander, until my aching muscles are no longer able to keep the book aloft. Joy is the anticipation of joy. Reading a fine book for the first time is as sumptuous as the first sip of orange juice that breaks the fast in Ramadan.

Ah, the deliciousness of discovering a masterwork. My heart begins to lift. I can see myself sitting all day in my chair, immersed in lives, plots, and sentences, intoxicated by words and chimeras, paralyzed by satisfaction and contentment, reading until the deepening twilight, until I can no longer make out the words, until my mind begins to wander, until my aching muscles are no longer able to keep the book aloft. Joy is the anticipation of joy.

A beautiful sunset that was mistaken for a dawn.

Understand I will quietly slip away from the noisy crowd when I see the pale stars rising, blooming over the oaks. I'll pursue the solitary pathways of the twilight meadows with only this one dream. You come too.

Your solitude will expand and become a place where you can live in the twilight, where the noise of other people passes, far in the distance.

You, still the squanderers of the empty hall — when the twilight comes, wide as woods… And the chandelier, like a sixteen-pointer, vaults where nothing can set foot.

That country where it is always turning late in the year. That country where the hills are fog and the rivers are mist; where noons go quickly, dusks and twilights linger, and midnights stay. That country composed in the main of cellars, sub-cellars, coal-bins, closets, attics, and pantries faced away from the sun. That country whose people are autumn people, thinking only autumn thoughts. Whose people passing at night on the empty walks sound like rain.