On light

Last year, Leslie Rose had some great posts on an element of setting I’d never consciously considered: light (her posts are here and here). Leslie has a background in theatre that, I’m sure, benefits her writing.

Light doesn’t always have to be mentioned directly, of course. White, airy curtains will give a different impression than sagging, Poe-esque drapes. Maybe the light plays on the face of a character, revealing cruelty or tenderness.

Here are some examples of light I just found:

“The windows of the tall buildings uptown flashed amber and bronze. A fat pink-stained cloud, its every billow and furl distinct as carved ivory, hung soaking up the last light over Brooklyn.” (Michael Cunningham, A Home at the End of the World)

“…and softly beyond the twilit door the twilight-colored smell of honeysuckle.” (William Faulkner, The Sound and the Fury)

“Because it had rained and the rain had caught the black soot of the factories as they burned, Paris in the dark seemed covered by a dusky skin, almost as though it were living.” (Lauren Groff, “Delicate Edible Birds”)

“The fence posts on the margins of the fields glinted like burnished pins, the thick light plated his face with a coppery mask.” (Annie Proulx, Postcards)

“The living room contained ten shades of red, including shrimp walls, Chinese red carpeting, and a wing chair upholstered in pink chintz with a large floral pattern. It was like sitting in the middle of a bowl of cherry Jell-O…” (Marion Meade, Dorothy Parker: What Fresh Hell Is This?)

Mysterious Cape Cod light as captured by traveling companion Uadler

“It meant that on an evening so calm, so iridescently blue, so full of the chink and chafe of insects and fat old dogs dragging their chains and belling in the neighbors’ dooryards—in such a boundless and luminous evening, we would feel our proximity with our finer senses.” (Marilynne Robinson, Housekeeping)

Have a great weekend, everyone. Happy writing.

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