What if Park realized that all the things he thought were so mysterious and intriguing about her were actually just … bleak?
No sun, no moon, no morn, no noon, No dawn, no dusk, no proper time of day, . . . . . . No road, no street, no t' other side the way, . . . . . . No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no buds.
Life sucks, and then you die.
I also have just my own limits about stuff. I'm not interested in writing graphically about sexual assault for example. I feel like the stuff that I'm fascinated by is the stuff that's part of the public imagination of what horror is. The bleakness is a different issue. I think that just stems from my personality. I wish that I offered a little more glimmer of hope sometimes.
When awful darkness and silence reign Over the great Gromboolian plain, Through the long, long wintry nights.
I was not given to looking at life in a rosy light.
The Opera was a very cold film, a hopeless and dark film, no hope, no love.
We don't have to convince people how screwed they are.
The day is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains, and the wind is never weary; The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, But at every gust the dead leaves fall, And the day is dark and dreary. My life is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains, and the wind is never weary; My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past, But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, And the days are dark and dreary. Be still, sad heart! and cease repining; Behind the clouds is the sun still shining; Thy fate is the common fate of all, Into each life some rain must fall, Some days must be dark and dreary.
The year's in wane; There is nothing adorning; The night has no eve, And the day has no morning; Cold winter gives warning!
As a Scandinavian, I like hopelessness and the weird austerity in the hopelessness of things.
That's evolution. Evolution's always hard. Hard and bleak. No such thing as happy evolution
...the reason for living was to get ready to stay dead a long time.
A picture of my existence... would show a useless wooden stake covered in snow... stuck loosely at a slant in the ground in a ploughed field on the edge of a vast open plain on a dark winter night.
Even every ray of hope destroyed and not a wish to gild the gloom.
The older books were quite light-hearted. But I think most of my novels do end on a deep note of pessimism. Shadows seem to be closing in. The final conclusion isn't that life is wonderful and everything is bright and cheery and in the garden.
I don't think that there's necessarily a side to drama that has to be completely bleak. You have to have a flicker of humor 'cause everyone has a flicker of humor, something they find funny in life.
Everything's complicated, even those things that seem flat in their bleakness or sadness.
You can make bleak things funny but if you're glib about it, it doesn't work.
It's always darkest before it turns absolutely pitch black.
All dark and comfortless.
We laughed a lot. That's one thing we forgot about for a few years - laughing. When we went through all the lawsuits, it looked as if everything was bleak, but when I think back to before that, I remember we used to laugh all the time.
The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead station.
We don't live in a particularly attractive world. I don't really remember, except as a small boy, anything but a pretty grim world.
I, myself, often wished to be spared the expectation of better days ahead or such.
