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“They sipped until the sun, as golden as syrupy as the bourbon, slipped into the sea.”
― Delia Owens, Where the Crawdads Sing

“Only the house was still desolate and the day had a livid ruined atmosphere, time had been damaged in some deep way, like on a day of bereavement or frightful national disaster.”
― Iris Murdoch, The Sacred and Profane Love Machine

“It was night, and the sky spreading into a rain that fell like darkness visible, a glistering where there was no light.”
― Sandra Newman, The Heavens

“There was a shadowy light, not exactly twilight, but an uncertain vivid yet hazy illumination, wherein people walked like spirits, bathed in light and not revealed.”
― Iris Murdoch, The Black Prince

“The room, the wall, trembled with precision, as if the inanimate world were about to utter a word.”
― Iris Murdoch, The Black Prince

“He was attentive but impersonal, and esteemed rather than loved.”
― Iris Murdoch, The Message to the Planet

“. . . a meadow which David had known before the coming of the motorway, where he had searched for mushrooms in previous autumns, in lost quiet golden hazes.”
― Iris Murdoch, The Sacred and Profane Love Machine

“Sweet wine from Spain and gossip from France; the sun in the windows dimmed, sorrowed prettily as the day declined, until the candles' light was mirrored in the glass. Their dabbling flames were like guesses at a feeling, the hearth's fire like the feeling itself. It was a beautiful pastime she had missed; hours that had stepped light-footed on Emilia's memory and passed on.”
― Sandra Newman, The Heavens

“The room had the rather sinister tedium which some bedrooms have, a sort of weary banality which is a reminder of death. A dressing table can be a terrible thing.”
― Iris Murdoch, The Black Prince

“For the moment however behold me sitting with Priscilla and Francis. A domestic interior. It is about ten o'clock in the evening and the curtains are drawn.”
― Iris Murdoch, The Black Prince

“The flat was small and smelt of ancient things with which Gildas had not contended. In the sitting room shadowy photographs of Italian lakes had been hung high up by a previous tenant.”
― Iris Murdoch, The Message to the Planet

“It was dark now. A thin moon was visible, a bright portent, but giving no light.”
― Iris Murdoch, The Message to the Planet

“. . . where an iron bedstead was wrapped in stillness.”
― Iris Murdoch, The Message to the Planet

“. . . the superiority of some infinite reserve and the mystery of some infinite sadness.”
― Iris Murdoch, The Message to the Planet

“No shadows steal upon this hard glare, the stony vineyards shimmer in the sun and the bougainvillaea is white with dust.”
― Daphne du Maurier, Rebecca

“Ancient historians lied. Modern historians play Chinese whispers. Now, it's time to tell you the true story of Lamia and her Knight - from the Garden of Eden to Ancient Rome.”
― Anna Canić

“With his fair hair and milky skin and rosy cheeks, he looks like he could be an English farmer’s son. But he’s slim, so maybe the sensitive farmer’s son who steals away to the barn to read.”
― Jenny Han, To All the Boys I've Loved Before

“He’s as stooping and sly as I remember, his gaze running its hands through my pockets before taking in my face.”
― Stuart Turton, The 7 1/2 Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle

“Compromised by longing & looking for language

to note the differences in the map: the pointed spruces
tipped against the moon this time

& the water halflit, star-slid—but it makes no difference
in the telling.”
― Emily Skaja, Brute: Poems

“The man was actually still a youth. He had a light mustache and beard encircling his chin, more yellow than brown. His cheeks were rosy, his eyes blue. You couldn't tell the color of his hair since it was completely covered by a bowl shaped leather helmet made of such a firm solid material that even a rather strong sword's blow couldn't penetrate it. It rested on his head gathering all his hair inside; over his ears and toward the back was an extension to ward off a blow to the neck.”
― Adalbert Stifter, Witiko

“From above, you looked small
as an afterthought, something lightly brushed in.”
― Mary Szybist, Incarnadine: Poems

“I only

dream of your ankles brushed by dark violets,
of honeybees above you

murmuring into a crown. Antique queen,

the night dreams on:”
― Mary Szybist, Incarnadine: Poems

“She can feel it scratching at her, her anger, wedged in the space where the two halves of her rib cage meet.”
― Kristen Roupenian, You Know You Want This: Cat Person and Other Stories

“Outdoors; everything one might dream. The fairy-gray clouded sky and the fairy-green misted wood. Her tall horse shying at a sparkling brook. All dreams.”
― Sandra Newman, The Heavens

“Then it cleared: farther down the hallway, a door had opened on a flourish of sunlight. Into the light stepped a youth, white and gold, a celestial apparition—the Earl of Southampton. His face was beardless still, the eyes pale blue and with the lashless look of redheads. His auburn tresses, artfully curled, fell almost to his elbows. He was six feet tall and lovely as a waterfall, as pretty as a flowering tree. White silk, white velvet, cloth of gold. A gold filigree earring in one ear. Emilia knew him from her days of attendance on the Queen: an uncanny, androgynous youth with the despotic pout of the beautiful, who can never be sufficiently loved.”
― Sandra Newman, The Heavens

“He laughed and came forward impulsively to kiss her—his affection a potent thing, a flourish of light. She was smiling, her tears feeling fresh on her face. He smelled of sweat and roses. She felt it in the palms of her hands, in her loins. It was right. It was Southampton she had wanted all along.”
― Sandra Newman, The Heavens

“La foule était en liesse, des colombes volaient dans le ciel, il pleuvait des cupcakes double chocolat, et non, je n’exagère pas du tout, est-ce que c’est mon genre ?”
― Anne-Fleur Multon, Viser la lune

“Il faisait un froid de guerre.”
― René Barjavel, Le Voyageur imprudent

“Quelques corbeaux passèrent au ras du plafond des nuages, se posèrent en grappes noires sur l'orme dressé au milieu de la plaine.”
― René Barjavel, Le Voyageur imprudent

“She was familiar with the stage management of this particular entryway, knew just how to get the most out of it. Knew just how long to stand motionless, and then resume progress down into the room. Knew how to kill him. Or, since she'd already done that pretty successfully, perhaps I'd better say, knew how to give him the shot of adrenalin that would bring him back to life, so that she could kill him all over again. To be in love with her as he was, I couldn't help thinking, must be a continuous succession of death throes. Without any final release. I imagined I could feel his wrist, hidden behind me, bounce a little, from a quickened pulse.”
― Cornell Woolrich, Literary Noir: A Series of Suspense: Volume One