Quotes About Grayness

Ik heb nog nooit een schoft of een heilige gezien. De dingen zijn nooit helemaal zwart of helemaal wit, alles is grijs. Mensen en hun zielen ook… Je ziel is grijs, behoorlijk grijs, zoals die van ons allemaal…

I work much better in sunshine. It's drizzle and grayness that I don't like.

I have wrestled with death. It is the most unexciting contest you can imagine. It takes place in an impalpable grayness, with nothing underfoot, with nothing around, without spectators, without clamor, without glory, without the great desire of victory, without the great fear of defeat, in a sickly atmosphere of tepid skepticism, without much belief in your own right, and still less in that of your adversary.

winter grayness weighing like stone.

I prefer to work with grey characters rather than black and white.

A wave of grayness covered over the monastery. The breeze grew stronger, and the dance of the waters began upon the walls. Like a beaded curtain, the rain covered that open end of the porch at which they stared.

With the awakening of his emotions, his first perception was a sense of futility, a dull ache at the utter grayness of his life.

Those eyes, with the grayness and eternity of a cliff of soft granite, caught his.

People who have never dealt with depression think it's just being sad or being in a bad mood. That's not what depression is for me; it's falling into a state of grayness and numbness.

the gray rain-storm which looked as if it would go on forever and ever. She watched it so long and steadily that the grayness grew heavier and heavier before her eyes and she fell asleep.

Sometimes there are no good guys. There are no bad guys. It seems like everybody is in the middle.

Y así, en tales manos, España se convirtió en un páramo de luto y tristeza, empobrecida, enferma, miserable, dócil, asustada y gris, teniendo como único alivio los toros, el fútbol y la radio

I have no complaints from my characters, be it in 'Commando' or 'Gangs of Wasseypur' everyone on those films was grey.

Look, we're in the time of the anti-hero.

No characters in 'Stay Close,' including the leads, are black and white. I want them to be grey. I think that makes for a much more interesting reading experience, something that will stay with you a little bit longer.

when some of the neural "lights" in question have been switched off by injury, the outcome can be connected to a form of generalized depression, or what Dr. Jim Pfaus of Concordia University calls "anhedonia"—a state of pleasurelessness, bleakness, or grayness, in perceptions of the world.

Why, despite the blinding brightness, did everything look gray? It was as if the painfully sharp lights were helpless to dispel all the darkness the people had brought in from the night outside.

I am obsessed with the whole Victoriana thing, the whole Jack the Ripper London era, the grayness of it, the haunted feeling of it, all ancient and bloody.

And I wouldn't feel any loss because I wouldn't ever have met her. I wondered suddenly if Terence did, if he knew on some level that he hadn't met his true love. And if he did, what did he feel? Mawkish sorrow, like one of his Victorian poems? Or a gnawing of some need unsatisfied? Or just a grayness to everything?

The shape of the city stood in the grayness like a charcoal drawing sketched across the waste.

The wall was an eyesore in its newness, grayness, lack of grace. That much blank space might not set a regular person's blood racing, but to an artist, it's like opening up a new sketchpad, the kind with heavy textured paper. Impossible to leave it empty.

As I drove out of Warren, I didn't know what to think. The feeling of cold grayness was everywhere around me - a sense of resignation. There had been no talk of rehabilitation, of cure, of someday sending these people out into the world again. No one had spoken of hope. The feeling was of living death - or worse, of never having been fully alive and knowing. Souls withered from the beginning, and doomed to stare into the time and space of every day.

From time to time Eva would venture on deck to gaze at the grey sky,the grey turbulent water and the grey ships with their belching smoke stacks butting and smashing onward through the waves and jagged swells - disappearing in explosions of wintry spume from time to time - gamely making for the British Isles

And the dusk, the gritty Southern grayness of it, its harsh gathering, stopped Joe Howard from seeing out beyond the solitude of his own reflection, a soldier's reflection: dark hair, a trimmed mustache, eyes he didn't bother looking into, and farther down from them, the ghostly shadow of a khaki uniform, of lieutenant's bars and a medal. There was no brain, no blood, no bone, no friend called L. C. Hoover sprayed all over this Joe Howard Wilson—at least not anymore.