Curiouser and curiouser.
We must view young people not as empty bottles to be filled, but as candles to be lit.
Following the well-lit path, offers little in the way of magic.
Insights and perceptions pass through the mind like fleet fireflies. Lit for an instant, then gone back into the dark.
Too many words are lit for a beast of burden.
Without inspiration, we’re all like a box of matches that will never be lit.
Our journey on the path is personal and well lit with the Savior's love.
The sea appears all golden. Beneath the sun-lit sky.
Essentially what photography is is life lit up.
As hope kindles hope, millions more will find it. By our efforts, we have lit a fire as well - a fire in the minds of men. It warms those who feel its power, it burns those who fight its progress, and one day this untamed fire of freedom will reach the darkest corners of our world.
But at night, when the library lamps are lit, the outside world disappears and nothing but the space of books remains in existence.
As one candle is lit from the flame of another, so is faith kindled by faith.
When a happy person comes into the room, it is as if another candle has been lit.
Books-bright windows in this life of ours, lit by the shining souls of men.
Even a small match lit in a place of total darkness gives off a blinding light.
Night is a world lit by itself.
Why are some people born with a fire in the belly, while others need something to get their pilot light lit?
Cause I lit him on fire,” I shrugged and brushed dust from my pants.
A waste land lit by holy candles.
Love is like an eternal flame, once it is lit, it will continue to burn for all time.
A thousand candles can be lit from one candle, however the life of the original candle is not shortened in the least.
I see only forms that are lit up and forms that are not. There is only light and shadow.
A lamp is lit in woman's eye; that souls, else lost on earth, remember angels by.
Now, writing every day, and being paid for it and encouraged to do it, it was as if, in the midst of the clich?d dark and stormy night, I found the magical inn, its windows golden lit, and Summer was due to start tomorrow. I can only work at one thing well. Deprive me of that, and my "back-up plan," even now, will be the empty, stormy, darkened heath -- where, incidentally, even unpublished, somehow I'll still be writing.
Most of our platitudes notwithstanding, self-deception remains the most difficult deception. The tricks that work on others count for nothing in that very well-lit back alley where one keeps assignation with oneself: no winning smiles will do here, no prettily drawn lists of good intentions. One shuffles flashily but in vain through one's marked cards- the kindness done for the wrong reason, the apparent triumph which involved no real effort, the seemingly heroic act into which one had been shamed.
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