Torchlight Quotes

Always be prepared one day the electricity will stop if your phone isn't charged well and you don't have the need stuff you will get bored very easy. For example you can't read a physical book, you will need a torchlight, but if you have a book on your phone you can read it also you can listen! ~ Deyth Banger

Arin heard the door to the barracks creak. The sound brought him immediately to his feet, for only one person would come to his cell this late at night. Then he heard the first heavy footfall, and his hands slackened around the metal bars. The footsteps coming were not hers. They belonged to someone big. Solid, slow. Probably a man.
Torchlight pulsed toward Arin's cell. When he saw who carried it, he pulled away from the bars. He saw a child's nightmare come to life.
The general set the torch in a sconce. He stared, taking in Arin's fresh bruises, his height, his features. The general's frown deepened.
This man didn't look like Kestrel. He was all mass and muscle. But Arin found her in the way her father lifted his chin, and his eyes held the same dangerous intelligence.
"Is she all right?" Arin said. When he received no response, he asked again in Valorian. And because he had already damned himself with a question he couldn't bear not to ask, Arin said something he had sworn he would never say. "Sir."
"She's fine."
A feeling flowed into Arin, something like sleep or the sudden absence of pain.
"If I had my choice, I would kill you," said the general, "but that would cause more talk. You'll be sold. Not right away, because I don't want to be seen reacting to a scandal. But soon.
"I'll be spending some time at home, and I will be watching you. If you come near my daughter, I will forget my better judgment. I will have you torn limb from ~ Marie Rutkoski

After the torchlight red on sweaty faces
After the frosty silence in the gardens
After the agony in stony places
The shouting and the crying
Prison and palace and reverberation
Of thunder of spring over distant mountains
He who was living is now dead
We who were living are now dying
With a little patience

Here is no water but only rock
Rock and no water and the sandy road
The road winding above among the mountains
Which are mountains of rock without water
If there were water we should stop and drink
Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think
Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand
If there were only water amongst the rock
Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit
Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit
There is not even silence in the mountains
But dry sterile thunder without rain
There is not even solitude in the mountains
But red sullen faces sneer and snarl
From doors of mudcracked houses
If there were water
And no rock
If there were rock
And also water
And water
A spring
A pool among the rock
If there were the sound of water only
Not the cicada
And dry grass singing
But sound of water over a rock
Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees
Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop
But there is no water
- The Waste Land (ll. 322-358) ~ T.S. Eliot

To share our independence, to me, is synonym with "maturity". Maturity means the combination of courage - to do something - and consideration - to stop doing that when it's required. Kind of like the gas and brake in a vehicle.
"To depend on Love isn't the same as to depend on a single person to feel that connection towards Love. The more Love that flows through any given relationship, the more love that can flow towards other relationships, in contrast, a lack of Love in a relationship calls us to look out for anything else that could make us feel connected, feel accepted.
"Most people aren't ready for the kind of commitment and dedication required to 'merge' in someone else while retaining their individuality, and after a very short time, they feel suffocated and abandon such relationship.
"In order to identify when we are receiving this energy from a particular - limited - individual, or when it is coming from Source, the Love that flows from Source is unlimited and increases constantly, whilst the other one needs constant recharge to continue to function. It's as clear as the difference between sunlight and a torchlight. ~ Nityananda Das

Rachel's voice is fierce. The Commander will send out scouts. We should-"
"Oh, he sent out scouts," Willow says. "Five of them. And they were doing a good job of searching the city. Unfortunately for them, all they managed to find was me."
"You killed them?" Ian asks.
"No. I invited them over for dinner." She smacks his shoulder. "the sun is almost down. By the time the Commander realizes his scouts aren't coming back, it will be too dark to send more. He can't risk us seeing torchlight, and they can't search these ruins without light."
"You scare me a little," Ian says, but his voice is full of admiration.
Adam steps closer to Willow. "She's good at everything she does."
Quinn clears his throat." Maybe we should get back to the problem?"
"We can't travel at night," I say. "We need light as well. But we can leave at dawn, and-"
"They'll leave at dawn, too," Adam says. "And if they're that close already, there's no way we can outrun them. Not with children and elderly and the wagons."
"Which is why we're going to create a barrier between us," I say. "Something they can't cross."
Rachel meets my eyes, and her smile is cold and bright. "Fire."
I match her smile with one of my own. "Fire. And when the army finally gets past the blaze, we won't be where they expect, because we're leaving the main road behind."
"What are we waiting for?" Willow asks. "Let's go burn something down. ~ C.J. Redwine

What a blush," he murmured. "Good Lord, I've forgotten what it's like to be so innocent. I doubt I ever was."
St. Vincent was mesmerizing in the torchlight. Shadows nestled lovingly beneath the fine planes of his cheekbones. The thick, layered locks of his hair were the bronzed gold of an ancient Byzantine icon. ~ Lisa Kleypas

those glasses aren't for the sun they're for darkness, exclaims Rue. Sometimes when we harvest through the night, they'll pass out a few pairs to those of us highest in the trees. Where the torchlight doesn't reach. One time, this boy Martin, he tried to keep his pair. Hid it in his pants. They killed him on the spot. They killed a boy for taking these/ I say Yes. and everyone knew he was no danger. Martin wasn't right in the head. I mean he still acted like a three year old. He just wanted the glasses to play with, says Rue. Hearing this makes me feel like District 12 is some sort of safe haven. Of course, people keel over from starvation all the time, but I can't imagine the peacekeepers murdering a simpleminded child. There's a little girl, one of greasy sae's gradkids, who wanders around the Hob. She's not quite right but she's treated as a sort of pet. People toss her scraps and things. ~ Suzanne Collins

The sleeping draught began to take effect. Idita blew out the candles on the table. Just the torchlight from the courtyard shone into the room. "You will heal, Mauro," she promised.
He lay down on the cot and looked up at her through half-closed eyes. He knew she did not mean his arm. "I know I will. ~ Jillian Bald

His muscles glistened, wet as if he'd just swum a great distance. To his side, he carried a massive Shardblade, point down, sticking about a finger's width into the stone, his hand on the hilt. The Blade reflected torchlight; it was long, narrow, and straight, shaped like an enormous spike. ~ Brandon Sanderson

Then she laughed for real, and put her hands around my neck. 'I am never, ever going to make things easy for you Seaweed Brain. Get used to it.'
When she kissed me, I had the feeling my brain was melting right through my body.
I could've stayed that way forever, except a voice behind us growled, 'Well it's about time!'
Suddenly the pavilion was filled with torchlight and campers. Clarisse led the way as the eavesdroppers charged and hoisted us both onto their shoulders.
'Oh, come on!' I complained. 'Is there no privacy?'
'The lovebirds need to cool off!' Clarisse said with glee.
'The canoe lake!' Conner Stoll shouted.
With a huge cheer, they carried us down the hill, but they kept us close enough to hold hands. Annabeth was laughing, and I couldn't help laughing too, even though my face was completely red.
We held hands right up to the moment they dumped us in the water. ~ Rick Riordan

..... he had ridden right through the gates of the palace. Of course, people rode through
the gates of the palace every day, but most of them needed the things to be opened first.
The guards on the other side were rigid with fear, because they thought they had seen a ghost.
They would have been far more frightened if they had known that a ghost was almost exactly
what they hadn't seen.
The guard outside the doors of the great hall had seen it happen too, but he had time to gather his
wits, or such that remained, and raise his spear as Binky trotted across the courtyard.
'Halt,' he croaked. 'Halt. What goes where?'
Mort saw him for the first time.
'What?' he said, still lost in thought.
The guard ran his tongue over his dry lips, and backed away. Mort slid off Binky's back and
walked forward.
'I meant, what goes there?' the guard tried again, with a mixture of doggedness and suicidal
stupidity that marked him for early promotion.
Mort caught the spear gently and lifted it out of the way of the door. As he did so the torchlight
illuminated his face.
'Mort,' he said softly.
It should have been enough for any normal soldier, but this guard was officer material.
'I mean, friend or foe?' he stuttered, trying to avoid Mort's gaze.
'Which would you prefer?' he grinned. It wasn't quite the grin of his master, but it was a pretty
effective grin and didn't have a trace of humour in it.
Terry Pratchett

The bed we loved in was a spinning world
of forests, castles, torchlight, clifftops, seas
where we would dive for pearls. My lover's words
were shooting stars which fell to earth as kisses
on these lips; my body now a softer rhyme
to his, now echo, assonance; his touch
a verb dancing in the centre of a noun.
Some nights, I dreamed he'd written me, the bed
a page beneath his writer's hands. Romance
and drama played by touch, by scent, by taste.
In the other bed, the best, our guests dozed on,
dribbling their prose. My living laughing love -
I hold him in the casket of my widow's head
as he held me upon that next best bed.

- Anne Hathaway ~ Carol Ann Duffy

It took several minutes before I was strong enough to say more than a few words of welcome to Aurelia. She returned my gratitude by saying, "You both are going to smell horrid, and now I'll smell too. Honestly, Nic, I'm beginning to wonder what your attraction is to sewage."

"It's not what attracts me down here as much as what repels me up there," I said. Despite being covered in filth I didn't even want to think about, I felt only happiness for being here now. This was the second time the Cloaca Maxima had saved my life. And much more than the second time that Aurelia had come to save me.

I stood and helped Livia to her feet. She was obviously disgusted by the smells around us, but hid her revulsion as well as anyone could. When she faced Aurelia, I made the introductions.

"Your brother has told me so much about you," Aurelia said with a polite bow to Livia.

Livia bowed back. "And the same for you. From Nic's descriptions, I feel as if I already know you."

"He described me?" Aurelia glanced my way with a broad grin. I felt myself blushing and hoped it wasn't visible in the torchlight.

"This is a terrible place for such silly talk," I said. "Let's go."

Aurelia and Livia began walking, with me trailing them. "What did Nic say about me?" Aurelia asked.

"That you're loud and you ask too many questions," I replied before Livia could speak.

Livia giggled. "No, that wasn't it."
< ~ Jennifer A. Nielsen

Anne Hathaway
The bed we loved in was a spinning world
of forests, castles, torchlight, clifftops, seas
where we would dive for pearls. My lover's words
were shooting stars which fell to earth as kisses
on these lips; my body now a softer rhyme
to his, now echo, assonance; his touch
a verb dancing in the centre of a noun.
Some nights, I dreamed he'd written me, the bed
a page beneath his writer's hands. Romance
and drama played by touch, by scent, by taste.
In the other bed, the best, our guests dozed on,
dribbling their prose. My living laughing love -
I hold him in the casket of my widow's head
as he held me upon that next best bed. ~ Carol Ann Duffy

This, let me remind you again, is a love story; you can see it by the imbecility, not a repulsive imbecility, the exalted imbecility of these proceedings, this station in torchlight, as if they had come there on purpose to have it out for the edification of concealed murderers. ~ Joseph Conrad

I just need to be able to vanquish my enemies. That's all."
He looks surprised, "Do you have a lot of enemies, then?" I am sure he imagines me among the children of the Gentry, with their soft hands and velvet skirts. He thinks of little cruelties, small slights, minor snubs.
"Not many," I say, thinking of the lazy, hateful look Cardan gave me by torchlight in the hedge maze. "But they're quality. ~ Holly Black

[Stares at dead knight, killed by the Direwolves]
Ersen: If he had sounded his horn ...
Theon: Try and imagine it was you up there, Ersen. Its dark and cold. You have been walking century for hours looking forward to the end of your watch. Then you hear a noise and you move forward to the gate, and suddenly, you see eyes glowing green and gold in the torchlight.
Two shadows come rushing toward you faster than you can believe. You catch a glimpse of teeth, start to level your spear, and they slam into you and open your belly, tearing through leather as if it was cheese cloth.
[Shoves Ersen hard]
Theon: And now you're down on you back, your guts are spilling out and one of them has his teeth around your neck.
[Grabs Ersen around the neck and sqeezes]
Theon: Tell me, at what moment during all of this do you stop to blow your Fucking horn?
[Shoves Ersen roughly] ~ George R R Martin

Has it ever occurred to you, Master Ninefingers, that a sword is different from other weapons? Axes and maces and so forth are lethal enough, but they hang on the belt like dumb brutes." He ran an eye over the hilt, plain cold metal scored with faint grooves for a good grip, glinting in the torchlight. "But a sword... a sword has a voice."

"Eh?"

"Sheathed it has little to say, to be sure, but you need only put your hand on the hilt and it begins to whisper in your enemy's ear." He wrapped his fingers tightly round the grip. "A gentle warning. A word of caution. Do you hear it?"

Logen nodded slowly. "Now," murmured Bayaz, "compare it to the sword half drawn." A foot length of metal hissed out of the sheath, a single silver letter shining near the hilt. The blade itself was dull, but its edge had a cold and frosty glint. "It speaks louder, does it not? It hisses a dire threat. It makes a deadly promise. Do you hear it?"

Logen nodded again, his eye fastened on that glittering edge. "Now compare it to the sword full drawn." Bayaz whipped the long blade from its sheath with a faint ringing sound, brought it up so that the point hovered inches from Logen's face. "It shouts now, does it not? It screams defiance! It bellows a challenge! Do you hear it?"

"Mmm," said Logen, leaning back and staring slightly crosseyed at the shining point of the sword.

Bayaz let it drop and slid it gently back into its scabbard, something ~ Joe Abercrombie

Of all the evil Farah had had a chance to glimpse in this room, Dorian Blackwell's smile, full of his own blood and teeth and challenge, had to be the most frightening Farah had witnessed in her entire life. His eyes were dead, devoid of any hope or humanity, the milky blue one utterly motionless but for the reflection of the torchlight lending it an unnatural pagan gleam. ~ Kerrigan Byrne

Sun does not need your torch to shine ~ 'SON Of GOD' P.S.Jagadeesh Kumar

Ever since we crawled out of that primordial slime, that's been our unifying cry, 'More light.' Sunlight. Torchlight. Candlelight. Neon, incandescent lights that banish the darkness from our caves to illuminate our roads, the insides of our refrigerators. Big floods for the night games at Soldier's Field. Little tiny flashlights for those books we read under the covers when we're supposed to be asleep. Light is more than watts and footcandles. Light is metaphor. Light is knowledge, light is life, light is light. ~ Diane Frolov

As humourless a lump of dough as ever held a torchlight vigil outside the South African Embassy or stuck an AIDS awareness ribbon on an unwilling first-nighter. ~ Stephen Fry