C’est donc geistlich, spirituellement, que le bleu azuré du ciel devient crépusculaire (dämmert).
(Derrida, De l’esprit, IX)
A leisurely job scraping the summer-dried fish guts from his paint-weathered boat, his head down to the work, wondering about painting the boat some fancy colours—capillary red, or a kingfisher’s azure blue, or sunflower yellow. Oh! The good old days. What a memory. A reminder of the showing-off days when men were men, and the fish were plentiful, and boats never dreamt about the colour of camouflaged grey.
(Alexis Wright, Carpentaria 2)
Oh, who would paint a goldfield,
And limn the picture right,
As we have often seen it
In early morning’s light ;
The yellow mounds of mullock
With spots of red and white,
The scattered quartz that glistened
Like diamonds in light ;
The azure line of ridges,
The bush of darkest green
(Henry Lawson, ‘The roaring days’)
The pedestals were green, the mantles of the prophets were gilt, their tunics red and azure with golden stars. Isaiah, the gloomiest of all, wore a dress of gold-cloth. The open spaces were filled with golden suns and initials.
(J. Huizinga, The Waning of the Middle Ages, ch. 19)
You are now in a vestibule of [Nature’s] own making. Its floor is a delicious greensward; its walls are the steep hill-side; lofty trees, with their leafy capitals, form its colonnade; and its ceiling is the azure vault.
(unnamed author in Dan Meinwald, ‘Momento mori: death and photography in nineteenth century America’)