Even Through The Rain Quotes & Sayings

Then she decided she was ready to die.
But before she did, she asked the poets to record these moments
in song, and the architects to carve the song in marble,
and the marble to be extracted from the most secret veins
of the earth and placed where no man could see it,
because that is the nature of love, because one walks alone
through the ruins of the heart, because the young must sleep
with their eyes open, because the angels tremble
from so much beauty, because memory moves in orbits
of absence, because she holds her hands out in the rain,
and rain remembers nothing, not even how it became itself. — Eric Gamalinda

I like to sit in front of the computer, going through files of music, and recording the final vocals, guitars and what- nots. But the windows are always open and you can hear the crickets, birds, chickens, and even the sound of rain hitting the studio. The farm is a great place to hang out in, learn from and create music. — Jason Mraz

Even as I regarded those two men, I became aware of the flying beams of the spotlights, to the north-east, painting ephemeral infinity symbols across the pregnant clouds that increasingly commanded the sky, of the distant roller-coaster chain clacking through the ratchet angles of the guideway as cars full of riders climbed an incline toward the next long drop, of the dusty smell of the campground, and of the scent of rain pending. — Dean Koontz

The line at the end that says, 'Nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands' makes perfect sense to me. It means they can go anywhere inside of you, because like the rain, like water, they find places that nothing solid could pass through. It explains the way that Sky gets into me, into places that I never knew were there. How he touches a part of me no one has ever touched. We both have secret places in us. — Ava Dellaira

Days like this, like your day today.
maybe the rain on the window trying to
get through to you. What do you see today?
what is it? where are you?
the best days are sometimes the first,
sometimes the middle and even sometimes the last — Charles Bukowski

All day the stars watch from long ago
my mother said I am going now
when you are alone you will be all right
whether or not you know you will know
look at the old house in the dawn rain
all the flowers are forms of water
the sun reminds them through a white cloud
touches the patchwork spread on the hill
the washed colors of the afterlife
that lived there long before you were born
see how they wake without a question
even though the whole world is burning — W.S. Merwin

What makes Travels with Charley so readily accessible to even the most casual reader is the deft evocation of the natural world, the colors and textures of leaves on the trees, the rich smells of earth, the slur of rain on pavement, the sharp rays of the sun as they pillar through a scud of clouds. Indeed, one can hardly open a page of this book without stumbling upon some bright image from nature. — John Steinbeck

Rain falls steadily outside and dampens my leg. I shiver at the cold night air and the breeze on my bare arms. I'm about to drop down into the space between the bushes and the wall when a hand closes around my wrist.

It's Gavin, and he looks furious. 'You intend to go out there?' he asks. 'And you can't even see them, can you?'

I try to pull myself from his grip, but he only tightens his hold. 'I never said I could.'

'You implied it.'

'I'm un-implying it now.' I grin. 'I have other means.'

Gavin studies me intently. 'Did you choose this?'

Leaning in close, I press my cheek against his, a touch that goes against every social rule I've ever been taught. It's the excitement of the hunt that courses through me, a savage hum. I'm beyond propriety, beyond etiquette.

'I revel in it. — Elizabeth May

Underneath the sky, so void of light, the rain soaked me through. I held on to the railing and felt calm, even content, and then he had to reach through the dark, raise my temperature and make my heart beat a little bit faster. Not very gallant I should say ... especially so close to bedtime. Friend or not, should he rob me of sleep, I'll be sure to take his. — Donna Lynn Hope

Nothing last forever not even your problems. The day will come that you will look back & say: I can't believe I made it through all that darkness and rain! Always keep the faith. — Timothy Pina

I didn't have to look to know who it was; this was a voice I would know anywhere - know, and respond to, whether I was awake or asleep ... or even dead, I'd bet. The voice I'd walk through fire for - or, less dramatically, slosh every day through the cold and endless rain for. — Stephenie Meyer

I felt that the magical people must be in the hidden back roads and dusty cubby holes of life; on highways, in hostels, and in shabby, smoky cafes. These enchanting people are in trees, around fires and under hand-knit hats and street lamps reflecting gold on rain soaked pavement. They dance while others dangle; they vibrantly sing the songs that get jumbled and stuck in the subconscious of others who only wish to catch tune. They are the rare ones whose uncommon experiences touch your heart through just a wink of their eye, the stories stitched in the holes of their shoes, invoking a longing for the unknown, taking others to a place of missing what they've never even had -- they do not settle, they do not compromise. — Jackie Haze

All day the wind had screamed and the rain had beaten against the windows, so that even here in the heart of great, hand-made London we were forced to raise our minds for the instant from the routine of life and to recognise the presence of those great elemental forces which shriek at mankind through the bars of his civilisation, like untamed beasts in a cage. — Arthur Conan Doyle

It commenced raining one day and did not stop for two months. We went through ever different kind of rain they is, cep'n maybe sleet or hail. It was little tiny stinging rain sometimes, an big ole fat rain at others. It came sidewise an straight down an sometimes even seem to stand up from the ground. Nevertheless, we was expected to do our shit, which was mainly walking upland down the hills an stuff looking for gooks. — Winston Groom

Sophie, my dog, is the high in the highlights of my life. Even through rain, snow, ice, and general laziness, she is the reason I smile when I wake up and a comfort to me continually. I could never have imagined that a now five-pound, six-ounce dog would take over my life. But it has happened, and I am happy to have someone to look after and share my moods with. — Lauren Bacall

We're exactly like this storm, Jake. Fiery, hot, even crazy. But you know what? Yu know the problem with sizzling summer storms?"
"No, what?" Even through the rain, his voice carried the hint of danger. Of wildness that outdid Mother Nature.
"They blow over. You settle back to enjoy the lightning show, the clap of thunder, and poof, they're gone. — Rebecca Zanetti

This rose is not so fragrant as a summer flower, but it has stood through hardships none of them could bear: the cold rain of winter has sufficed to nourish it, and its faint sun to warm it; the bleak winds have not blanched it, or broken its stem, and the keen frost has not blighted it ... It is still fresh and blooming as a flower can be, with the cold snow even now on its petals. - Will you have it? — Anne Bronte

When I think of it as happening to somebody else, it seems that the idea of me soaked to the skin, surrounded by countless driving streaks of silver, and moving through when I completely forget my material existence, and view myself from a purely objective standpoint, can I, as a figure in a painting, blend into the beautiful harmony of my natural surroundings. The moment, however, I feel annoyed because of the rain, or miserable because my legs are weary because of the rain, or miserable because my legs are weary with walking, then I have already ceased to be a character in a poem, or a figure in a painting, and I revert to the uncomprehending, insensitive man in the street I was before. I am then even blind to the elegance of the fleeting clouds; unable even to feel any bond of sympathy with a falling petal or the cry of a bird, much less appreciate the great beauty in the image of myself, completely alone, walking through the mountains in spring. — Soseki Natsume

Life wasn't easy. It wasn't supposed to be. Yet with the right person, even the worst journey was tolerable. More than that, it could be fun. It wasn't about learning to suffer through the storm to make it to the daylight. Life was about running through the rain and laughing even while it soaked you to the bone. Dodging the lightning strikes and daring it to come for you. — Sherrilyn Kenyon

Witch Baby wanted to ask Ping how to find her Jah-Love angel. She knew Raphael was not him, even though Raphael had the right eyes and smile and name. She knew how he looked
the angel in her dream
but she didn't know how to find him. Should she roller-skate through the streets in the evenings when the streetlights flicker on? Should she stow away to Jamaica on a cruise ship and search for him in the rain forests and along the beaches? Would he come to her? Was he waiting, dreaming of her in the same way she waited and dreamed? — Francesca Lia Block

I crumple onto the lounger and cry again even though I didn't think I had any tears left. And then Dante is next to me, with his wet arms around me and he's whispering in my ear.
And the huskiness of his voice.
The smell of his wet skin.
The beating of his heart against my hand.
All of it.
I don't want to be without him.
Maybe he's right. Maybe love is all that matters. And we can get through our differences. We can get through anything.
And then he's kissing me.
And I'm letting him.
And I'm kissing him back.
Because I love him and he loves me and Elena Kontou doesn't matter.
Dante's hands are all over me, warm and strong and I lean into him, into his warmth, his strength. It's still raining, but we are kissing in the rain and it's sexy as hell. In fact, I think I'll kiss in the rain forever. For the rest of my life. Because it's just that sexy. — Courtney Cole

I see myself as a Scottish sky: there are rain clouds, rainbows and sunrays that run and overtake one another, mingle together and dance with each other! You see all of this within seconds of looking up! It's a living sky, it breathes and it's real! And I think that when you look at me, you'll see my rain clouds first, because only after rainclouds can there come the rainbows. You see, if the rainbows come first, then the rainbows aren't even real, so I think that if people deserve to see my real rainbows, then they will just know that they need to stick around through the rain! Like a Scottish sky, I want to be real and breathing and running. I don't want to be a clear blue all the time, or a dark grey all the time or have fake rainbows painted onto me; I want to be Scottish. — C. JoyBell C.

He remembers an afternoon not long after his wife's arrest when he caught himself avoiding puddles of rainwater on the streets. When he realised what he was doing it struck him as ridiculous and even reprehensible that he was still prey to such petty concerns. He began deliberately splashing through all the biggest puddles, as if to show some higher power how little he cared about anything anymore. His daughter copied him. Skipping and dancing as if she and the rain shared a secret complicity. — Glenn Haybittle

As he observed her in musing silence, a novel thought occurred to him. It slipped through his mind so subtly that it seemed to mingle like smoke with his physical perceptions, with the way the dim light through the stained-glass window fell across her hair in little iridescent rainbows, and the scent of old tobacco and dust lingered in the room. He wondered - absurdly - if this was what she had come for - simply to sit in the stillness and be alive and share it with him.
Something inside, something tiny he hadn't even known was there, seemed to unfold, to spread tentative petals open like a desert flower sensing rain.
She turned and looked up at him, her great unblinking eyes full of forest wisdom. He thought foolishly: Let me stay here. I need this. — Laura Kinsale

My mother was the best and most beautiful woman who ever lived. She was clean, and good, and always helped "the poor and needy who cluster round your door," like it says in the poetry piece, and there never could have been a reason why God would want a woman to suffer herself, when she went flying on horseback even dark nights through rain or snow, to doctor other people's pain, and when she gave away things like she did - why, I've seen her take a big piece of meat from the barrel, and a sack of meal, and heaps of apples and potatoes to carry to Mandy Thomas - when she gave away food by the wagonload at a time, God couldn't have wanted her to be hungry, and yet she was that very minute almost crying for food; — Gene Stratton-Porter

I'm reading,' said Bruno. 'What are you reading?' she asked him, and rather than answer he simply turned the cover towards her so she could see for herself. She made a raspberry sound through her lips and some of her spit landed on Bruno's face. 'Boring,' she said in a sing-song voice. 'It's not boring at all,' said Bruno. 'It's an adventure. It's better than dolls, that's for sure.' Gretel didn't rise to the bait on that one. 'What are you doing?' she repeated, irritating Bruno even further. 'I told you, I'm trying to read,' he said in a grumpy voice. 'If some people would just let me.' 'I've got nothing to do,' she replied. 'I hate the rain.' Bruno found this hard to understand. It wasn't as if she ever did anything anyway, unlike him, who had adventures and — John Boyne

In until ten, not even on Mardi Gras nights. No one except the girl in the black silk dress, the thin little girl with the short, soft dark hair that fell in a curtain across her eyes. Christian always wanted to brush it away from her face, to feel it trickle through his fingers like rain. Tonight, as usual, she slipped in at nine-thirty and looked around for the friends who were never there. The wind blew the French Quarter in behind her, the night air rippling warm down Chartres Street as it slipped away toward the river, smelling of spice and fried oysters and whiskey and the dust of ancient bones stolen and violated. — Poppy Z. Brite

The rain continued through Monday morning and slowed Bosch's drive into Brentwood to a frustrating crawl. It wasn't heavy rain, but in Los Angeles any rain at all can paralyze the city. It was one of the mysteries Bosch could never fathom. A city largely defined by the automobile yet full of drivers unable to cope with even a mild inclemency. — Michael Connelly

For how many years have you gone through the house
shutting the windows,
while the rain was still five miles away
and veering, o plum-colored clouds, to the north
away from you
and you did not even know enough
to be sorry,
you were glad
those silver sheets, with the occasional golden staple,
were sweeping on, elsewhere,
violent and electric and uncontrollable
and will you find yourself finally wanting to forget
all enclosures, including
the enclosure of yourself, o lonely leaf, and will you
dash finally, frantically,
to the windows and haul them open and lean out
to the dark, silvered sky, to everything
that is beyond capture, shouting
i'm here, i'm here! now, now, now, now, now. — Mary Oliver

This path, this road that is one perfect straight line even if it goes around the world through heat and fog and rain and snow and it's my life I keep thinking. It's my life. — Deborah Keenan

As far as he could discover, there were no signs of spring. The decay that covered the surface of the mottled ground was not the kind in which life generates. Last year, he remembered, May had failed to quicken these soiled fields. It had taken all the brutality of July to torture a few green spikes through the exhausted dirt.
What the little park needed, even more than he did, was a drink. Neither alcohol nor rain would do. Tomorrow, in his column, he would ask Broken-hearted, Sick-of-it-all, Desperate, Disillusioned-with-tubercular-husband and the rest of his correspondents to come here and water the soil with their tears. Flowers would then spring up, flowers that smelled of feet.
"Ah, humanity ... " But he was heavy with shadow and the joke went into a dying fall. He trist to break its fall by laughing at himself. — Nathanael West

Now there's a joy inside I can't contain
But even perfect days can end in rain
And though it's pouring down
I see You through the clouds
Shining on my face. — Francesca Battistelli

Bran had told himself a hundred times how much he hated hiding down here in the dark, how much he wanted to see the sun again, to ride
his horse through wind and rain. But now that the moment was upon him, he was afraid. He'd felt safe in the darkness; when you could not
even find your own hand in front of your face, it was easy to believe that no enemies could ever find you either. — George R R Martin

Even as a boy Jack had loved the smell of the ground softening in the thaw and coming back to life. Not this spring. A damp, moldy dreariness, something like loneliness, had settled over the homestead. At first Jack did not know its source. Maybe it was only his own mood. Perhaps it was the spring weather, with overcast skies and freezing rain that soaked through the cabin walls. Mabel, too, seemed beset by a morose restlessness. — Eowyn Ivey

Trees loaded with fruit are bent down; the clouds when charged with fresh rain hang down near the earth: even so good men are not uplifted through prosperity. Such is the natural character of the liberal. — Bhartrhari