Cast Long Shadows Quotes

It lightens my heart to see you with it. We could all do with lighter hearts tonight. ~ Cassandra Clare

I kneeled in front of the E M T chair, in front of the mirror on the medicine cabinet, and wiped the rest of the makeup away. My skin was raw, pink and new. The ambulance had a single round light in the middle of the ceiling. The light cast long shadows under my nose, ears, eyes, and chin, and in the shadows I was young and I was a crone, in the exact same moment. That's it, I thought: life is short. The only value of wated time is knowledge. p.295 ~ Monica Drake

High trees cast long shadows. The happier and more blessed a woman's life is, the more duz she feel for them that are less blessed than she. ~ Marietta Holley

When the sun of culture is low, even dwarves will cast long shadows ~ Karl Kraus

The curse of cancer created a strange and strained existence, challenging me to be neither blind to, nor bound by, death's approach. Even when the cancer was in retreat, it cast long shadows. When ~ Paul Kalanithi

I know something else as well: there's a place in most of us where the rain is pretty much constant, the shadows are always long, and the woods are full of monsters. ~ Stephen King

It's a high honor to be a part of the Star Wars universe and such a long running show. Our talented writers, animators and cast of voice actors have made The Clone Wars truly unique. And of course we wouldn't have hit 100 episodes had it not been for our incredibly dedicated fans who make this possible! ~ Matt Lanter

Why is she kissing me back like she's trying to crawn inside of me?
I hate that her taste quenches something hidden deep in the dark shadows of my soulless being that's been starving for so long. I hate that her warm touch feels like a jagged knife stabbing the pain I've tucked away for the day when I can avenge it.
If we don't stop, she could awaken something that cannot be brought to life. Not ever. ~ Jewel E. Ann

I'll lie here and learn
How, over their ground,
Trees make a long shadow
And a light sound. ~ Louise Bogan

In Pliny I read about the invention of clay modeling. A Sicyonian potter came to Corinth. There his daughter fell in love with a young man who had to make frequent long journeys away from the city. When he sat with her at home, she used to trace the outline of his shadow that a candle's light cast on the wall. Then, in his absence she worked over the profile, deepening, so that she might enjoy his face, and remember. One day the father slapped some potter's clay over the gouged plaster; when the clay hardened he removed it, baked it, and "showed it abroad" (63). ~ Annie Dillard

He wasn't a hero. He wasn't the man who stepped forward and saved the innocent. He was lost himself. Shadows had invaded a long time ago and stolen his life. But he would give anything he had left to be the man who found a way to save Judith ~ Christine Feehan

She leaned down and looked at his lifeless face and Leisel kissed her best friend, Rudy Steiner, soft and true on his lips. He tasted dusty and sweet. He tasted like regret in the shadows of trees and in the glow of the anarchist's suit collection. She kissed him long and soft, and when she pulled herself away, she touched his mouth with her fingers ... She did not say goodbye. She was incapable, and after a few more minutes at his side, she was able to tear herself from the ground. It amazes me what humans can do, even when streams are flowing down their faces and they stagger on ... ~ Markus Zusak

Oh, how beautiful is the summer night, which is not night, but a sunless, yet unclouded, day, descending upon earth with dews and shadows and refreshing coolness! How beautiful the long mild twilight, which, like a silver clasp, unites today with yesterday! ~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The darkness agrees with me. It asks me to release it, as loud as a roar and as quiet as a whisper. I remember what my sister said long ago: You must control the darkness. You can't ever give in to it. But the shadows want to make me happy, and I deserve a little happiness ~ Justina Ireland

To be fair, if we had married then, who knows what would have become of us? I doubt I would have liked your running about the country as a spy, leaving me alone for weeks at a time. And I daresay you would have had trouble concentrating on your work for worrying about me."
His grateful smile showed that he appreciated her attempt to mitigate his betrayal.
"Of course, later you could have…well…come after me. Once you established your business. While I was still un-betrothed. Why didn't you?"
"I don't suppose you would accept rampant idiocy as a reason?"
"I would…if I really thought it were the reason." When he stiffened, she added archly, "You aren't generally an idiot. Daft and a tad overbearing, yes, but not an idiot."
A sigh escaped him. He leaned past her to pull the curtain open just enough so he could keep an eye on the street.
When it looked as if he might not answer, she added, "Tristan thinks you didn't come after me because you were afraid that I couldn't love you."
He cast her a startled glance. "You told Tristan the truth about us?"
She winced. "And Lisette and Max. Sorry. Tristan sort of…forced it out of me."
"Well, that explains why Max and Lisette were willing to bring you here in the midst of such a crucial investigation. They've been pressing me for a long time to give you another chance. Because they thought you betrayed me."
Grabbing her hands, he gazed down at them with a haunted look. "And I suppose there's ~ Sabrina Jeffries

The long morning shadows lay as still and dark as lakes and patterned the rough ground with straight margins. ~ Paul Theroux

I think there are shows that are long-running and successful, where some or all of the cast members hate each other, but I think it's a lot easier to have an environment where everyone feels secure and supported to do the best work possible. ~ Jesse Metcalfe

... I seemed to be lying neither asleep nor awake looking down a long corridor of gray half light where all stable things had become shadowy paradoxical all I had done shadows all I had felt suffered taking visible form antic and perverse mocking without relevance inherent themselves with the denial of the significance they should have affirmed thinking I was I was not who was not was not who. ~ William Faulkner

Linger now with me, thou Beauty,
On the sharp archaic shore.
Surely 'tis a wastrel's duty
And the gods could ask no more.
If thou lingerest when I linger,
If thou tread'st the stones I tread,
Thou wilt stay my spirit's hunger
And dispel the dreams I dread.

Come thou, love, my own, my only,
Through the battlements of Groan;
Lingering becomes so lonely
When one lingers on one's own.

I have lingered in the cloisters
Of the Northern Wing at night,
As the sky unclasped its oysters
On the midnight pearls of light;
For the long remorseless shadows
Chilled me with exquisite fear.
I have lingered in cold meadows
Through a month of rain, my dear.

Come, my Love, my sweet, my Only,
Through the parapets of Groan.
Lingering can be very lonely
When one lingers on one's own.

In dark alcoves I have lingered
Conscious of dead dynasties;
I have lingered in blue cellars
And in hollow trunks of trees.
Many a traveler through moonlight
Passing by a winding stair
Or a cold and crumbling archway
Has been shocked to see me there.

I have longed for thee, my Only,
Hark! the footsteps of the Groan!
Lingering is so very lonely
When one lingers all alone.

Will thou come with me, and linger?
And discourse with me of those
Secret things the mystic ~ Mervyn Peake

A believer has forgiveness of sin, and Christ will not cast him out. Sin will ever remain part of the Christian's flesh, as seen, for instance, in evil desires referred to in Rom. 6-8. 'But as long as a man comes to Me in faith, even though he should stumble, I shall see to it that this does not harm him.' His sinful flesh will have no dominion over him; there is no condemnation for those who are incorporated into the body of Christ Jesus (Rom. 8:1), although they are not yet entirely pure, and their flesh is not completely mortified. ~ Martin Luther

I never realized Death was so fleet of foot.'
'The fleetest. Always dancing in the shadows.'
'Always waiting for his next partner?'
'Dancing through a long list until he finds the perfect one. ~ Anne Mallory

There comes a moment when time seems to slip faster, running long then short, shadows shrinking as the sun climbs. It's the moment, he decided, when you're no longer a child. When the concept of time and the need for more of it come together and make you powerless. Make you yearn for the longer days, the lazy days, before you knew what time passing actually meant. ~ Tara Sim

As with men, it has always seemed to me that books have their own peculiar destinies. They go towards the people who are waiting for them and reach them at the right moment. They are made of living material and continue to cast light through the darkness long after the death of their authors. ~ Miguel Serrano

In Psalms 103:12, we are told how far away God wants to cast our sins from us: "as far as the east is from the west." Note that he didn't say as far as north is from the south because when you go south long enough, you eventually start going north again, but when you go east, you always go east. ~ Mark Biltz

When nightfall weaves its way through the New York Public Library, it is nothing shy of magic. Long stretched of sunlight on marble morph from white to yellow to pink to orange to red, the dim slowly, completely. Shadows yawn and stretch awake. Eighty-five miles of books on shelves blink away their daytime sleep, for book are often nocturnal creatures, ready to play. To roam. To hunt. ~ Kristin O'Donnell Tubb

We skipped stones across the creek, which sounds dumb but it wasn't. I don't know. Like the way the sun is right now, with the long shadows and that kind of bright, soft light you get when the sun isn't quite setting? That's the light that makes everything better, everything prettier, and today, everything just seems to be in that light. ~ John Green

Finding her voice at last, she asked, "What dreams are you having, sir?"
"I dreamt I was in a spring field and a woman stands in the shadows just at the edge of the nearby forest. I haven't yet seen her face, only her long beautiful hair. I always wake too soon." He reached up to touch the hawk touchstone around his throat as he described his dream, rubbing it absently between his fingers.
Lily lowered her lashes to hide her astonishment. "When you see someone in a dream but cannot see their face, it means you haven't met them yet," she explained.
"Then perhaps I'll dream of her again tonight and this time I'll see her face." He smiled, reaching across the table to take her left hand and lift it to his lips. "My name is Ian Kelly, and it would give me the greatest pleasure to know yours."
"Lily Evans. Around here I go by Raven." She raised a shoulder, indicating the gypsy tent.
"Lily--indeed, a most beautiful name. Now tell me," he stared pointedly at her hand, "I see no ring that another has claimed you as his, so my confidence is strengthened. Look at your cards again, milady, and tell me if you see me in your future… ~ Shannon MacLeod

Ali stares dreamily at the shadows of the garden. I wonder why he's the one who seems to be pining for something. I look intently at the dark sky as I consider his questions and finally I realise what 'home' means to me. Even with a roof over my head I'm still homeless in my heart. Bricks and mortar don't mean anything. I'm not sure if I want a real home right now, somewhere I belong. Not that one is on offer or available to someone like me. Some days, I long for the freedom of the streets, strange as it may sound to anyone who has never been homeless. My bedsit and the job are like a hamster's cage, giving me temporary shelter but making me go round and round in circles ~ A. Zukowski

We are the voices in the shadows,
Between the light and shade,
Betwixt life and restful death,
In the dark periphery of the unseen.

We're here,
At the edges.
We are the villainous punished,
The innocent murdered or abandoned,
Our lives ended by foul means, or unspeakable deeds.
We are your lovers long gone; your siblings forsaken.

Can you hear us?
At the edges

From the Foreword of Cautionary Tales - by Emmanuelle de Maupassant ~ Emmanuelle De Maupassant

We are rendering many species extinct; we may even succeed in destroying ourselves. But this is nothing new for the Earth. Humans would then be just the latest in a long sequence of upstart species that arrive on-stage, make some alterations in the scenery, kill off some of the cast, and then themselves exit stage-left forever. New players appear in the next act. The Earth abides. It has seen all this before. ~ Carl Sagan

Just above Tommy's face were the Maiden and the Troll, two of his oldest wall people. The troll lived in a cave deep in the woods. He was big (Tommy knew the troll was even bigger than his daddy, and if the troll told his daddy to sit down and shut up, he would in a second), and he looked scary, with his little eyes and crooked teeth like fangs, but he had a secret. The secret was that he wasn't scary at all. He liked to read, and play chess by mail with a gnome from over by the closet wall, and he never killed anything. The troll was a good troll, but everyone judged him by his looks. And that, Tommy knew, was a mean thing to do, though everyone did it.
The maiden was very beautiful. Even more beautiful than Tommy's mommy. She had long blonde hair that fell in heavy curls to her waist, and big blue eyes, and she always smiled even though her family was poor. She came into the woods near the troll's cave to get water from a spring, for her family. The spring bubbled out of Tommy's wall right next to where his hand lay when he was asleep. Sometimes she only came and filled her jug and left. But other times she would sit awhile, and sing songs of love lost, and sailing ships, and the kings and queens of Elfland. And the troll, so hideous and so kind, would listen to her soft voice from the shadows just inside the entrance of his cave, which sat just below the shelf where Tommy kept his favorite toys and books.
Tommy felt bad for the troll. He loved the maiden who came ~ Michael Kanuckel

I will go home and much of what I will have to say will seem strange to the people of my village... But I will teach and work and things will happen, slowly and swiftly. At times it will seem that nothing changes at all... and then again... the sudden dramatic events which make history leap into the future. And then quiet again. Retrogression even. Guns, murder, revolution. And I even will have moments when I wonder if the quiet was not better than all that death and hatred. But I will look about my village at the illiteracy and disease and ignorance and will not wonder long. And perhaps... perhaps I will be a great man... I mean perhaps I will hold on to the substance of truth and find my way always with the right course... and perhaps for it I will be butchered in my bed some night by the servants of empire...

...perhaps the things I believe now for my country will be wrong and outmoded, and I will not understand and do terrible things to have things my way or merely to keep my power. Don't you see that there will be young men and women, not British soldiers then, but my own black countrymen... to step out of the shadows some evening and slit my then useless throat? Don't you see they have always been there... that they always will be. And that such a thing as my own death will be an advance? They who might kill me even... actually replenish me! ~ Lorraine Hansberry

Beyond the slumpstone wall lay a backyard, a swimming pool. Dappled with morning light and tree shadows, the water glimmered in shades of blue from sapphire to turquoise, as might a trove of jewels left by long-dead pirates who had sailed a sea since vanished. ~ Dean Koontz

But now she loved winter. Winter was beautiful "up back" - almost intolerably beautiful. Days of clear brilliance. Evenings that were like cups of glamour - the purest vintage of winter's wine. Nights with their fire of stars. Cold, exquisite winter sunrises. Lovely ferns of ice all over the windows of the Blue Castle. Moonlight on birches in a silver thaw. Ragged shadows on windy evenings - torn, twisted, fantastic shadows. Great silences, austere and searching. Jewelled, barbaric hills. The sun suddenly breaking through grey clouds over long, white Mistawis. Ice-grey twilights, broken by snow-squalls, when their cosy living-room, with its goblins of firelight and inscrutable cats, seemed cosier than ever. Every hour brought a new revalation and wonder. ~ L.M. Montgomery

History is replete with the seeds of apocalypse. In particular, the 19th/early 20th Century in France was a time of country-shattering events, whether it was the rise and fall of Napoleon Bonaparte (the creation and brutal upending of a whole new social order, within scarcely more than a decade), or the Great War (which devastated the country to a degree that is hard to believe today, wiping out an entire generation in the trenches). It was no great stretch to imagine a magical war engulfing Europe in 1914, and leaving Paris as a field of ruins filled with magical booby traps–the familiar monuments destroyed, the Seine overflowing with the residue of spells.

It's no secret that I'm fascinated by the narrative of war, and of recovery after war: how people struggle to rebuild lives and go on in the wake of world-shattering devastation; how the past can still cast a long, terrible shadow over everything; how the years before the war become a golden thing, regardless of how many injustices and hardships might have been happening then. I'm equally fascinated by history–the narratives that get preserved and enshrined, the stories that are passed down; and the speed with which some things get forgotten while others endure for generations. For me, the vocabulary and tropes of post-apocalypse were a great way to tackle those subjects, and to imagine what would happen in a city that had such a traumatic event in its past. ~ Aliette De Bodard

It was almost twilight, long shadows of oaks and chestnuts crossing the unpaved road leading away from the village. This part of England had not yet been deforested to feed the fleets and factories that had sprung up in the major cities. The woodlands were still pristine and other-worldly, scored with small cartways half-buried by overhanging branches thick with leaves. In the gathering shade the trees were wreathed in vapor and mystery, like sentinels for a world of druids and warlocks and unicorns. A brown owl glided over the lane, mothlike in the darkening sky. ~ Lisa Kleypas

By the time a person has achieved years adequate for choosing a direction, the die is cast and the moment has long since passed which determined the future. ~ Zelda Fitzgerald