Griffith Dark Quotes

What's needed on Earth is love of the dark side of ourselves

The web convulsed, splitting the dark patch into hundreds of peach-colored corpuscles that pulsed in different directions down the hollow strands. Digestion. The strands were both the spider and the web.

She knew them by their thick woven cloaks, their hanging hair and beards, and their Anglisc voices: words drumming like apples spilt over wooden boards, round, rich, stirring. Like her father’s words, and her mother’s, and her sister’s. Utterly unlike Onnen’s otter-swift British or the dark liquid gleam of Irish. Hild spoke each to each. Apples to apples, otter to otter, gleam to gleam, though only when her mother wasn’t there.

People never really reinvent themselves. They migrate back to whatever they truly were.

I avoid doing things on impulse, because I’ve learned that my feelings are too unreliable to trust.

How can women like Shona and Michelle keep them draped all day? Ruth’s scarves either fall in her coffee or try to strangle her.

Wind swept dark tatters across a sky rippling with luminous cloud from horizon to horizon like a well-muscled torso, bringing with it the smell of dust and grass and a sweetness she could not identify.

He is tall and dark, with greying hair cut very short and there is something hard about him, something contained and slightly dangerous that makes her think that he can’t be a student and certainly not a lecturer.

Essentially, what has happened is that humans have become so habituated to living in Plato’s dark cave of denial that when finally given the means to exit the cave and stand in the warm, healing sunshine of self-understanding,

Anglisc voices: words drumming like apples split over wooden boards, round, rich, stirring. Like her father's words, and her mother's, and her sister's. Utterly unlike Onnen's otter-swift British or the dark liquid gleam of Irish.

As the days cooled the colours around her did, too. Bright red flowers were replaced by dark red berries. The sun set earlier. The berries now were tinged with blue. Perhaps it was warmth that made the colour. Red meant life. Blue meant the blue lips of harsh breathing and death. The end of things.

Look which way the bones lie. The position tells you everything. In Christian burials, bodies are usually buried facing east, supposedly towards heaven. Sometimes priests and religious leaders are buried facing west, so that they can rise facing their people. Facing downwards, you are looking at something else altogether.

If you're too young to remember the Time Before Pong, then you probably can't appreciate the momentousness of its arrival. Bear in mind the game emerged in a very different world. It was a time before home computers, cable television, cell phones, game consoles, the Internet--everything we take for granted today. For many of my formative years, we still watched TV in black and white, and had to get up to change the channel. This was the technological Dark Ages. Had we been less culturally enlightened, we would have denounced Pong as witchcraft and burned its inventors at the stake. For those of us who were there--who had never played, let alone seen, a video game--we knew we were witnessing something extraordinary, a groundbreaking achievement in home entertainment. However, none of us knew that we were participating in the birth of a revolution.

PLAINVILLE WAS A QUAINT picturesque town. Northern California’s version of Andy Griffith’s Mayberry. Bucolic enough to provide cinematic contrast for any low-budget stalk-and-slash film. Juxtaposition played just as important a role in still photography as it did in cinematography. Maybe that’s why Natalie Jones had picked Plainville for her final descent into darkness. The climactic scene in a comedic tragedy. Cast of one. Audience of one. Curtain closed.

A week ago, this part of the river, where trees on each side of the bank touch and merge overhead to form a living tunnel, had been a green-and-black oil painting of dark water and moss-backed boulders. Now it was as though some vandal had hurled cheap emulsion at the canvas: the arterial red leaves of a low-lying maple branch streaked violently from one bank to another, and on the far side, little poplar leaves the exact color of twenty-four carat gold lay strewn over the boulders like pirate treasure.

We steadied each other for a moment-long enough for me to catch the expensive scent of her dark, rain-wet hair-then stepped back. Looked at each other. About five-seven, I’d say. Slim and sleek. Face smooth with wariness: after all, I’m big; I’m told I look frightening when I want. And that made me think how fragile she was, despite the hard muscle I had felt under my hand. It would be so easy-a step, a smile, swift whirtl and grab and snap: done. I even knew how she would fall, what a tiny sound her last sigh would be, how she would fold onto the pavement. Eight seconds.

The river was dark, black and strong as a mother’s grief, for the moon wanted nothing of the world that night and turned his face. Smell was my guide.

The striplings paled, knobby bones showing white at wrist and jaw. They looked up at her with eyes huge and dark: a song come to life.

Her left-hand path was light and life and lifting up; her right, the dark and death and destruction.

Her mind was blank, a piece of wood floating on a great dark lake of exhaustion. She must float a little longer.

We are the people of the north. We will wrap like light around the darkness that is Cadwallon Bradawc and we will burn it from the land.

It should have been a nightmare ride two leagues uphill into the wild dark and slashing rain, with lightning crackling around them, but Hild’s bones fizzled and her heart sang.

There, on the harper’s stool, a woman with smooth dark hair held back by gold and tortoiseshell and a dress the blue of summer twilight-a dress that would match her eyes.

The dark was many things: the cold, the alien world, the virus, her own fear.

The people had abducted her, submerged her in the timeless otherworld that was no more real than the underwater palaces of those other abductors, the Sidhe, the unearthly faerie who stole human children, twisted their souls from their bodies, and filled them instead with dark glamour. Nothing was real.

Angst was for the dark.

Lying naked and cold beneath the perfect, whispering dark, I imagined I could feel the curve of the earth under my back, that I circled the whole planet so that my soles touched the top of my head and I blended with the dirt.

Darkness and light exist together in the same moments. We find it in sunrises and sunsets. It’s the clash that people trek across mountains to experience.

She doesn’t mind the dark but the light can be terrifying.

It’s not about good and bad,’ says Derek. ‘It’s opportunity and environment that creates criminals

If I had to choose between you and the sun, it’s you. In every lifetime, you are the most brilliant thing in existence. Your love is blinding and sustaining. I crave your warmth. The incandescence of you is what gives me light when my nature is to seek darkness. In every form that you exist, you are my sun. And I’ll be your moon. I’ll be the light that drives the nightmares away. The glow that soothes. And the calm you seek refuge in. Because you can burn eternally without me. But not me without you.

To have your face rolled down over your eyes and not even to notice your blindness. That's dead, I think, as dead as it's possible to be.

Jackson uses the silence to give me a bunch of stapled sheets. The title page says: Torture Survivors' Handbook. Information on Support and Resources for Torture Survivors in the UK. "This thing is mostly aimed at people coming here from abroad. But you should read it. And use it." I hold the book in my hands. I say, "They got the apostrophe in the right place. That's good.

Jackson thumps the desk again. Partly a 'need to think about this' gesture. Partly a 'good work, Constable' one. Mostly though, he's just a big Welshman and their hormones go funny unless they hit something now and again.

Off across the dark fields from spring to late fall, farmers break the blackness with lighted machinery – ever mindful of the caprice of weather that could make that night work the only guarantee for crucial field work to be done on schedule.

One of those thick red carpets that seems to trap time. I have one

and I can make him smile. And smiles are precious.

wish I was a better human. I wish we had food for the hungry and harmony between nations.

When I die - die properly, I mean - I'd want to feel the whole process. I'd want my ordinary seconds to expand, suddenly, to hours, so that I could watch, one by one, as my cells figured out that things weren't working any more. As, one by one, they drew the curtains, flipped the lights, slipped quietly away into the dark.

Trout-coloured water breaking over rocks.

living in the same house, married to the same woman, doing the same things in the same way until arthritis stiffened him, cataracts dimmed him, muscles failed and cancers ate him.

Then I stare at my face in the mirror for a minute or two, wondering if it feels like mine. In Bram Stoker’s Dracula, the dark count is invisible in mirrors and I often feel something similar is true of me too. I can’t feel any deep relationship between the face that is mine and the person I am. Like they’re two different things. I don’t

The harder you push at an unreliable memory, the less reliable it

Mike has a theory that most calls are boring, so he often leaves his phone where he can’t hear it.

Dreams?’ ‘I never dream.’ And that’s true. I never dream except sometimes when I wake up in blank terror and have no idea what I am terrified of. Nights with gaping horror in the middle of them and no reason why. A skull grinning in the dark. Nights when I have all too little difficulty in identifying my emotions. ‘Fear? You get frightened sometimes

You have the power . . . to consider time everlasting, to think of the swift change in the parts of each thing, of how brief is the span from birth until dissolution, and how the void before birth and the void beyond dissolution are equally infinite.

Elaine saw the glowing red eyes in the darkness, and felt something catastrophic enter her mind. A level of fear that she hadn’t thought possible. An endless despair that made her soul shriek.

no-obligation

One thing I learned going through a storm and that is, you can Praise God in the dark! If God makes light to shine out of darkness, well bless God, I can call forth light into my situation. I am the light of God. Praising Him is not determined by day or night. In whatever state I find myself in, I will continue to acknowledge Him. Then and only then, He will direct my path.

His eyes were as liquid as run honey, dark clover honey, and his hair was a rich brown with bronze sun straks, but his beard, like his eyebrows, was black. His face and hands were the colour of walnut, or perhaps elm bark, but lighter where his sleeves rose above his wrists. He was not thick-boned and heavy-muscled like Cei, but whippy as a hazel rod, and she knew she would not face him lightly in battle.

A woman with hair a dusty black-brown and eyes of deep blue-the deep dark blue of the dome of sky late in summer when the day turns towards night, but dark won’t fall, not quite, because summer wants to stay, hold on the world, linger forever.

Without the herbivore, grass is without value. Without the valuable cover of grass, the soil is without life. Without life, the terrestrial world becomes valueless and simply unhappy. The uniform diversity of the meadowland demonstrates that value co-creates the valuable via the tool of time. Time and value. Seeing and being. Grass is nothing at all. The community of grass is all.

The green grass of Gwynedd was a better way to end than blind agony in a dark, close room.

You can be made of pure light and no one will ever see it if you are always surrounded by darkness

History is written by the victors,

The Nix were shape-shifters. Sometimes they appear as beautiful women, sitting combing their long blue hair, their voices luring sailors to death on the jagged rocks. Sometimes the Nix is a man playing a violin, a wild tune that the traveller must follow at his peril. The Nix can even appear as a horse, a brook horse it’s called in Scandinavian legend, a beautiful animal, snow white or coal black, that appears in the water by a ravine or a waterfall. If you climb on its back you can never dismount and the horse will gallop away to the ends of the earth. On dark nights you can hear the horse’s hoofbeats, steady and relentless, carrying its rider to hell.

She was wearing a hacking jacket and turtleneck, a riding hat tricked under her left arm. I wondered what the photo opportunity had been, and why she looked happy. She hated houses. Her hair was dark honey streaked with grey and cut in a soft, chin-length bob. It looked all wrong; my mother had had long hair for as long as I could remember. She had gained a few pounds. She looked younger and softer.

Hjordis’s house in Oslo is filled in the afternoons with sunlight. In the evenings and during winter she burns a score of candles to soften and lift the dark that flattens even the best artificial light. Her living room feels alive; it seems to dance. By contrast, the Carpenters’ front room, with its thick brown curtains, umber wool rug, and heavy furniture, felt stiff and formal, but Hjordis would have understood immediately the ritual aspects of the gathering; to the right of the fireplace, Jud sat in a wingbacked chair turned slightly to face the upholstered sofa, where I sat in a carefully nonconfrontational pose, briefcase tucked out of sight. Adeline’s chair faced Jud’s across the fire, turned to give him all her support.

One afternoon when the winter was done and the world had begun to turn towards the light, with green shoots thrusting through the dark earth, the girl roamed the high fell in the steeper, northern part of the valley.

has always disliked about evangelicals. The way they talk about God as if he’s God Smith who lives next door.

The first thing that caught her eye was one of J.C. Dahl’s huge paintings of fjord light and water. She stood before it and her restlessness dropped away. She became as still as the deep dark of the fjord. I know if I put my hands on her shoulders, they would be soft and relaxed. This was a Julia I had not seen before: distant, analytical, expert.

The music was like a living stream, pulsing beneath bodies, collecting thickly in dark corners, vibrating bone so hard it might have been cartilege.

Felicity's voice came dark and sinister. "Bring me the head of Nikola Tesla.

Kissing her was not like kissing Julia, who had been all length and plum softness, and whose messages had been very clear. Kick was like a powerful trapped beast. She stirred restlessly, one hand in the small of my back, pulling me closer, one on my shoulder pushing me away. I eased to one side, weight on my right elbow, head propped on my hand. I stroked her belly. The muscle loosened. She sighed. The sigh sounded as though it had a smile in it. I smiled in the dark.

Maybe she’d be better suited to a glittering palace, to a great and terrible queen whose eyes are as pale as diamonds, who drinks bloodred wine, and trails a cloak of dark glamour.

He was looking at her too hard; his eyes were startling against his dark skin, like burnished bronze, glowing and greening in summer sun.

Everything changes but nothing is destroyed.

We can’t know all the patterns of the great web. We can just hope that it will make sense one day.

Something she had once heard comes back to Ruth. Saints cause a lot of trouble for the rest of us.

tell from bones whether someone has had a tattoo?’ ‘Well,’ says Ruth, ‘the ink used in tattoos can migrate to the lymph nodes so,

The world was different in the dark. Colours faded. Living things glowed reddish gold-there was a mouse in the pantry. Dead things once living-the table, the wool hanging-gleamed like darkened bronze. Stone glimmered silver, and iron dull zinc.

The TV was off and I could see a book face down on the coffee table. The Woman in White by Wilkie Collins. I thought of Ella Elphick, sitting in the dark with her herbal tea. Someone really should teach these women about Netflix.