I don't think anyone sits down and thinks, 'I know, I'll be a chick-lit writer.' You write the book that you want to write and then other people say, 'Oh, that's chick-lit.' You say, 'Okay.' But it's not like you look around and go to a careers fair and there will be someone at the chick-lit author stand.
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.
ITS CRAZY BUT OFTEN CLEAR OFTEN CLEAR.. WE SHIMMER AND DISAPPEAR IN COLOR IN BLACK AND WHITE BLACK AND WHITE.. WE SLOWLY FADE OUT OF SITE BUT THESE DAYS WERE LIT BY LIGHTNING THIN LINES OF LIGHT ITS CRAZY BUT SOMEHOW CLEAR SOMEHOW CLEAR WE RIDE IN SILENCE OUT OF FEAR WE'VE SPOKEN SEEM COME ALIVE COME ALIVE WE PREFER THE SILENCE OF THE BLIND BUT THESE DAYS WERE LIT BY LIGHTNING THIN LINES OF LIGHT THESE DAYS WERE LIT BY LINES OF SHARP WERE CRAZY BUT OFTEN KIND OFTEN KIND WE RAGE IN VIOLENCE BLIND TOGETHER AND THEN ALONE THEN ALONE WE RACE IN SMALL CIRCLES HOME BUT THESE DAYS WERE LIT BY LIGHTNING THIN LINES OF LIGHT THESE DAYS WERE LIT BY LINES OF SHARP THESE DAYS WERE LIT BY LIGHTNING THIN LINES OF LIGHT..... THESE DAYS.. WERE LIT BY LIGHT
The weak grey light that serves as harbinger of red and golden dawn faintly lit my window. I fumbled for a candle, found and lit it, and by its little light saw that the rose floating in the bowl was dying. It had already lost most of its petals, which floated on the water like tiny, un-seaworthy boats, deserted for safer craft. "Dear God," I said. "I must go back at once.
I lit a fire and sat there in my rocking chair. We lit a candle for him. It was as simple as that. I knew that what I had done may have been a catalyst in Danny's death, but I also knew that there was really nothing else I could have done. I can never really lose that feeling. I wasn't guilty, but I felt responsible in a way. It's part of what I do. Managing the band and taking care of the music is very painful at times. It's a sad story. A moment I will never forget, years I can never replace, music the world will never hear, all gone in the turning of a second.
LES VIEUX NE R&ECIRC;VENT PLUS, LEURS LIVRES S'ENSOMMEILLENT, LEURS PIANOS SONT FERM&EACUTE;S, LE PETIT CHAT EST MORT. LE MUSCAT DU DIMANCHE NE LES FAIT PLUS CHANTER, LES VIEUX NE BOUGENT PLUS, LEURS GESTES ONT TROP DE RIDES, LEUR MONDE EST TROP PETIT, DU LIT &AGRAVE; LA FEN&ECIRC;TRE, PUIS DU LIT AU FAUTEUIL, ET PUIS DU LIT AU LIT, ET S'ILS SORTENT ENCORE BRAS DESSUS, BRAS DESSOUS, TOUT HABILL&EACUTE;S DE RAIDE, C'EST POUR SUIVRE AU SOLEIL L'ENTERREMENT D'UN PLUS VIEUX, L'ENTERREMENT D'UNE PLUS LAIDE, ET LE TEMPS D'UN SANGLOT OUBLIER TOUTE UNE HEURE LA PENDULE D'ARGENT QUI RONRONNE AU SALON, QUI DIT OUI, QUI DIT NON, ET PUIS QUI LES ATTEND.
In a world of fixed future, life is an infinite corridor of rooms, one room lit at each moment, the next room dark but prepared. We walk from room to room, look into the room that is lit, the present moment, then walk on. We do not know the rooms ahead, but we know we cannot change them. We are spectators of our lives.
As I turned over the last page, a wave of sorrow enveloped me. Where had they all gone, these people who had seemed so real? To distract myself, I walked out into the night; instinctively, I lit a cigarette. In the dark, the cigarette glowed, like a fire lit by a survivor. But who would see this light, this small dot among infinite stars? I stood awhile in the dark, the cigarette glowing and growing small, each breath patiently destroying me. How small it was, how brief. Brief, brief, but inside me now, which the stars could never be.
Healing is to be in the light of our own consciousness. Healing is an inner light, which exist as a natural radiance around a person. This inner light is in itself a healing force beyond words. This inner light disperses darkness, like when you lit a candle in a dark room and the darkness disappears by itself. This inner light exudes a subtle influence through its mere presence. The more the light in our own consciousness is lit, the more it creates a subtle effect in the world.
Swami Dhyan Giten
My work has often been described as 'chick lit' and for the most part the term doesn't bother me. I think it simply signals to readers that the book is about women, written for women (although many men enjoy my books), about issues that concern women (relationships, careers, etc.) The only thing that bothers me is when the label is used disparagingly, to imply that all chick lit is, by definition, superficial, beach-read fluff because I believe that this is akin to saying that all women are devoid of substance and the issues that concern us, are fundamentally trivial ones. And I take issue with that.
I'm reminded of Orville Tethington, inventor of the world's first steam-powered fog machine. He's also the guy who, after the Germans invented the flame thrower in WWI, decided to counteract it with his own creation, the candle thrower. The candle thrower was only battle tested once, and after fifteen minutes the war zone was littered with lit candles. Upon returning home after the war, some of the soldiers suffered such extreme and bizarre cases of PTSD that anytime a civilian lit a match or used their lighter, the soldiers would hit the ground and start singing 'Happy Birthday.