Quotes About Train

So I got up, went down to the number 1 train, and rode in a car full to brimming over with commuters going from the jobs that they didn't want back to the lives they hadn't bargained for.

It was a train full of strangers, and they were all the same.

The voice was the tip of a long cold stiletto, inserting itself into Stephen's belly with infinite, almost lackadaisical, slowness. The voice was a forkload of maggoty flesh, pressed insistently against his lips. The voice was a Checker cab, wheeling suddenly around some corner and straight toward him, with its bright eyes glaring over the ravenous, grinning grill. The voice was a train. A long, cold train. Upon him now. And he was powerless before it.

Hear that lonesome whippoorwill?He sounds too blue to fly.The midnight train is whining low,I'm so lonesome I could cry.

no leas odas, hijo mío: lee los horarios de trenes. son más exactos.

Then it was on toward Manhattan, with the train slowing down at intervening suburban stops like Dobbs Ferry and Manhattanville so Lincoln could offer his ritualistic bowing from the rear car—doing so even alongside Sing Sing, whose prisoners, wearing striped uniforms, saluted as the train passed by.113

Suddenly, however, the dastardly department of my personality presented two plans, one of which involved dynamite, mustache wax, some rope, and train tracks . . . which I rejected due to financial investment.

We'll see what you find out," Stew said. "You'll find out what it feels like to be thrown from a speeding train to the rocky bottom of a drained sea. Except you won't really find out, because you'll be dead. Get it? What I mean is, it'll kill you when I throw you from this train so you'll be in no state to find out what it feels like. Get it? Due to your death by falling from a train.

window of the train and gazed at the gloomy blackness of the Finite Forest, wondering if their lives would ever get any

I looked out the window at the dark and racing scenery and I thought of the city, where the train would eventually arrive. I hadn't seen the city since my apprenticeship began, and for a moment I felt so homesick I had to stop and lean my head against the glass. Dear Kit, I thought. And then I said it out loud. "I wish you were here.

Perhaps one night, when you were very small, someone tucked you into bed and read you a story called "The Little Engine That Could," and if so then you have my profound sympathies, as it is one of the most tedious stories on Earth. The story probably put you right to sleep, which is the reason it is read to children, so I will remind you that the story involves the engine of a train that for some reason has the ability to think and talk.

In a train...smash. In his arm her last...breath.' He had loved her. But he hated himself more. Such suffering, so much pain. And he thought it made him hateful. As if suffering was shameful, disgusting, as if pain were a crime. Who can judge another man's suffering?

Long-distance train conversations are unlike the perfunctory exchanges one normally associates with strangers, or the truncated, cut-to-the-chase kind that sometimes take place between seatmates on a plane.

The biggest audience for Off Broadway is mostly coming in on a train - either Upper East Siders or Metro-North. I go to the theater, and everyone around me is over 50. How interested will they be in my kind of work?

Commuter - One who spends his life in riding to and from his wife a man who shaves and takes a train and then rides back to shave again.

If a train stops at a train station, what do you think happens at a work station?

The train station is the ideal scenario for greetings and farewells. The car is too banal. What does it mean to set off in a car? Nothing. The airport is too exhausting and impersonal, the plane itself remote, unseen, the barriers and security disturbing. Here the powerful beast of the locomotive thrusts its nose under the great arch of the station.

What a beautiful respite a train journey is and a good book, too, and best of all the book on the train, in life and out of it at the same time, before we arrive at Termini and disembark and the book is put down and we must all part and go our separate ways, forever.

Your ticket says via Pordenone," he told me. "Don't you read your documento di viaggio?" I was fascinated. What kind of man is it who imagines that when one buys a train ticket one then stops to read it?

In America the lack of investment in train travel speaks eloquently of a country always ready to appear righteous but pathologically averse to surrendering car and plane for a more eco-friendly, community-conscious form of mobility.

The sun, taken in as usual by the never-failing practical joke of the Daylight Saving Act, had only just set, and a golden afterglow lingered on the fields as the car which had met the train purred over the two miles of country road that separated the little town from the castle.

The train began to give up its contents, now in ones and twos, now in a steady stream.

Here, you! The boss wants you. Buck up!' Mr Stafford was talking into the telephone. He replaced the receiver as Henry entered. 'Oh, Rice, here's a woman wants her husband shadowed while he's on the road. He's an actor. I'm sending you. Go to this address, and get photographs and all particulars. You'll have to catch the eleven o'clock train on Friday.' 'Yes, sir.' 'He's in The Girl

But sometimes stories hide themselves from writers like trolls under bridges. Then the writers of the world must keep their bodies attuned for the sudden appearance of the story that is powerful enough to change their novels and their lives. They must train themselves to recognize the divine moment when a great story reveals itself.