The world is full of resurrections. Every night that folds us up in darkness is a death; and those of you that have been out early, and have seen the first of the dawn, will know it--the day rises out of the night like a being that has burst its tomb and escaped into life.
George MacDonaldAbout author
- Author's profession: Novelist, Poet
- Nationality: scottish
- Born: December 10, 1824
- Died: September 18, 1905
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What hope is here for modern rhyme
To him, who turns a musing eye
On songs, and deeds, and lives, that lie
Foreshorten'd in the tract of time?
These mortal lullabies of pain
May bind a book, may line a box,
May serve to curl a maiden's locks;
Or when a thousand moons shall wane
A man upon a stall may find,
And, passing, turn the page that tells
A grief, then changed to something else,
Sung by a long-forgotten mind.
But what of that? My darken'd ways
Shall ring with music all the...
Alfred Lord Tennyson
I'm named Bella," the girl told Gendry. "For the battle. I bet I could ring your bell, too. You want to?"No," he said gruffly."I bet you do." She ran a hand along his arm. "I don't cost nothing to friends of Thoros and the lighting lord."No, I said." Gendry rose abruptly and stalked away from the table out into the night. Bella turn to Arya. "Don't he like girls?"Arya shrugged. "He's just stupid. He likes to polish helmets and beat on swords with hammers.
George R. R. Martin
If you imagine that you will be able to achieve your ideal by ingeniously planning out a timetable with a pen on a piece of paper, you had better give up hope at once. If you are not prepared for discouragements and disillusions; if you will not be content with a small result for a big effort, then do not begin. Lie down again and resume the uneasy doze which you call your existence.
Arnold Bennett
Oh, my darling, wish you were here! And my dark soul is happy again, because it does not know how to be anything else for very long, andbecause the pain is a deep dark sea in which I would drown if I did not sail my little craft steadily over thesurface, steadily towards a sun which will never rise.
Anne Rice
Their constant outward-looking, their mania for radios, cars, and a thousand other trinkets made them dream and fix their eyes upon the trash of life, made it impossible for them to learn a language which could have taught them to speak of what was in their or others' hearts. The words of their souls were the syllables of popular songs.
Richard Wright
