He watched dustmotes climbing and sliding, gold in the slippery light. Down in the tennis court the windmill clanked in the easterly, and the grey-brown doves roocooed on the tennis court fence.
(Randolph Stow, The Merry-Go-Round in the Sea, 3)
Asking the breezes to send greetings to a time when women stitched those white and gold swans in treasured embroidery that became heirlooms, before they fled along broad rivers towards the sea where white soot-stained swans were nesting in the burnt marshes.
(Alexis Wright, The Swan Book, ‘Owls in the grass’)
Seen from a distance, against the background of crumbling grey plaster, they look like a rich and colorful palette, like a painting of tasteful and imaginative composition. Moreover, the shopkeeper changes the layout of the colors from day to day: Brown dates lie beside pastel pistachios and green olives—and the next day white almonds have taken the place of the fleshy dates and a pile of pepper pods is burning scarlet where there had been golden millet.
(Ryszard Kapuściński, ‘The dead flame’, Shah of Shahs)
Hence the young profligate in Terence, when he sees on the wall a fresco representing the fabled descent of Jupiter into the lap of Danaë in the form of a golden shower, accepts this as authoritative precedent for his own licentiousness, and boasts that he is an imitator of God.
Gone the patriotic noise in the streets, the chase after the gold-colored automobile, one false telegram after another, the wells poisoned by cholera, the Russian students heaving bombs over every railway bridge in Berlin, the French airplanes over Nuremberg, the spy hunting public running amok in the streets, the swaying crowds in the coffee shops with ear-deafening patriotic songs surging ever higher, whole city neighborhoods transformed into mobs ready to denounce, to mistreat women, to shout hurrah and to induce delirium in themselves by means of wild rumors.
(Rosa Luxemburg, ‘The Junius pamphlet’)