Hope is patience with the lamp lit.
What we strive for in perfection is not what turns us into the lit angel we desire what disturbs and then nourishes has everything we need.
Pippin had an opening number called "Magic to Do," and Jules Fisher, the brilliant lighting designer lit it. Tony Walton did all of the sets. As a kid I thought, "Wow, I'm seeing onstage what a MGM musical would look like live." It was that good, and it was directed by Bob Fosse.
A translucent person appears to glow as if from the inside. It's as though they've been lit up from inside and they appear to emit light.
Dimly lit restaurants always make me think they're trying to hide the food.
A dimly lit tavern, a willing young woman, are some of the reasons I cheat.
The lamps are lit, the fires burn bright. The house is full of life and light.
It's not good to be lit all the time and have no clear-headed thoughts.
Something that had the quality of a dimly lit stage set just before the curtains rise on opening night. There was a rhythm to it, a beckoning, and a bittersweet tear in time.
Everybody is a candle, true. But not everybody is lit.
The fuses had been lit and could not be extinguished. All that remained was to observe the speed of the spark, and the size of the explosions.
Everything which originates from pure love is lit with the radiance of beauty.
The lamps are going out all over Europe; we shall not see them lit again in our lifetime.
Well-lit streets discourage sin, but don't overdo it.
The thing to remember about love affairs," says Simone, "is that they are all like having raccoons in your chimney." ... We have raccoons sometimes in our chimney," explains Simone. And once we tried to smoke them out. We lit a fire, knowing they were there, but we hoped the smoke would cause them to scurry out the top and never come back. Instead, they caught on fire and came crashing down into our living room, all charred and in flames and running madly around until they dropped dead." Simone swallows some wine. "Love affairs are like that," she says. "They are all like that.
It was like time would stop, and the dancer would sort of step through some kind of portal and he wasn't doing anything different than he had ever done, 1,000 nights before, but everything would align. And all of a sudden, he would no longer appear to be merely human. He would be lit from within, and lit from below and all lit up on fire with divinity. And when this happened, back then, people knew it for what it was, you know, they called it by it's name. They would put their hands together and they would start to chant, "Allah, Allah, Allah, God God, God." That's God, you know.
The work completed during the special session was just the beginning. During those six days we lit a spark that will positively impact the lives of our children and grandchildren, but the full fire is yet to come.
It can be hard for the cute girl. I was blond, cute, broke. I was beat up. I was thrown inside lockers. I was burned with cigarettes. My hair was lit on fire.
How can people think that artists seek a name? A name, like a face, is something you have when you're not alone. There is no such thing as an artist: there is only the world, lit or unlit as the light allows.
The candle of liberty has always been kept lit by a vigilant few.
Like wind-- In it, with it, of it. Of it just like a sail, so light and strong that, even when it is bent flat, it gathers all the power of the wind without hampering its course. Like light-- In light, lit through by light, transformed into light. Like the lens which disappears in the light it focuses. Like wind. Like light. Just this--on these expanses, on these heights.
When a writer looked at an empty computer screen, what did she see? Tristan wondered. A movie screen ready to be lit with faces? A night sky with one small star blinking at the top, a universe ready to be written on? Endless possibilities. Love's endless twists and turns - and all love's impossibilities.
Can anything harm us, mother, after the night-lights are lit?" Nothing, precious," she said; "they are the eyes a mother leaves behind her to guard her children.
The continuous narrative of existence is a lie. There is no continuous narrative, there are lit-up moments, and the rest is dark.
For nowadays the world is lit by lightning! Blow out your candles, Laura -- and so goodbye. . . .
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