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“Judge Schreber has sunbeams in his ass. A solar anus. And rest assured that it works.”
― Gilles Deleuze

“But mostly, finally, ultimately, I'm here for the weather.

As a result of the weather, ours is a landscape in a minor key, a sketchy panorama where objects, both organic and inorganic, lack well-defined edges and tent to melt together, creating a perpetual blurred effect, as if God, after creating Northwestern Washington, had second thoughts and tried unsuccessfully to erase it. Living here is not unlike living inside a classical Chinese painting before the intense wisps of mineral pigment had dried upon the silk - although, depending on the bite in the wind, they're times when it's more akin to being trapped in a bad Chinese restaurant; a dubious joint where gruff waiters slam chopsticks against the horizon, where service is haphazard, noodles soggy, wallpaper a tad too green, and considerable amounts of tea are spilt; but in each and every fortune cookie there's a line of poetry you can never forget. Invariably, the poems comment on the weather.

In the deepest, darkest heart of winter, when the sky resembles bad banana baby food for months on end, and the witch measles that meteorologists call "drizzle" are a chronic gray rash on the skin of the land, folks all around me sink into a dismal funk. Many are depressed, a few actually suicidal. But I, I grow happier with each fresh storm, each thickening of the crinkly stratocumulus. "What's so hot about the sun?" I ask. Sunbeams are a lot like tourists: intruding where they don't belong, promoting noise and forced activity, faking a shallow cheerfulness, dumb little cameras slung around their necks. Raindrops, on the other hand, introverted, feral, buddhistically cool, behave as if they were locals. Which, of course, they are.”
― Tom Robbins, Wild Ducks Flying Backward

“She leaned back in her chair, and a sunbeam got entangled in her hair.”
― Nicolas Barreau, Love Letters from Montmartre

“There is a cosmic river flowing from the Sun to the Earth and to everywhere: The Sunlight, the holiest of the holy rivers! Enemy of Darkness is the best friend of existence! Touch the sunlight with a strong love because light itself made that love possible!”
― Mehmet Murat ildan

“I'm showering in sunbeams of love.”
― Anthony T. Hincks

“And the sunbeams promised life and happiness and the glory of the unknown.”
― W. Somerset Maugham, Mrs Craddock

“Suffice to say, the dream writer had a way of phrasing things. She could depict the curve of a cucumber, the shape of a sunbeam, the endearing, velvety tilt of a peach, in just such a way that she earned her living selling dreams. One simply made a selection, read it in solitude, and let it percolate till sleep. People swore they fell directly into her renderings, and one even asked if the dream writer could write a dream of dreaming forever. The dream writer could not do this, but she hired dream apprentices to expand the reach of her dreams and she wrote dreams for herself in which she would sit at a desk, pen in hand, and write even more dreams. This nearly doubled her output.”
― Meia Geddes, The Little Queen

“So he dreamt of the land of sunbeams; and that
was a dream indeed!”
― Ben Ditmars, The Old Crone and the Princess