Quotes About Contrast

Sunset is such a sad hour," she said, presently. "If I watch the end of a day—any day—I always feel it's the end of a whole epoch. And the autumn! It might as well be the end of everything," he said. "That's why I hate cold countries, and love the warm ones, where there's no winter, and when night comes you feel an opening up of the life there, instead of a closing down. Don't you feel that?

his behavior there was a perfect balance between gentleness and violence that gave her particular delight.

The sidewalk was completely empty. It was Sunday, early April. An icy wind teetered trash cans and turned my cheeks to marble. In Vietnam we had no weather like that. Here in Cleveland people call it spring.

Japanese goldfish, With your gossamer tail, You are the loveliest creature I have ever seen. Japanese kitten, Put your tongue back in where it belongs And go away. I know exactly what you are thinking.

They were worlds apart in everything but the simplicity of their humanity, and so they were really not apart at all.

New York remains what it has always been : a city of ebb and flow, a city of constant shifts of population and economics, a city of virtually no rest. It is harsh, dirty, and dangerous, it is whimsical and fanciful, it is beautiful and soaring - it is not one or another of these things but all of them, all at once, and to fail to accept this paradox is to deny the reality of city existence.

To put this in international perspective, Mississippi now is about as poor relative to the coastal states as Sicily is relative to northern Italy.

I'm a burger and brew guy in a paté and Chardonnay world. I'm as health conscious as the next guy, as long as the next guy is sitting on a bar stool. FALSE DAWN http://tinyurl.com/64qngk5

As a boy, I thought everyone's family was like that, until I met people like John and realised that wasn't true, and perhaps it was the contrast of our different outlooks that produced a kind of magic. But I was born into that way of thinking, that it'll be okay in the end. Tragedy can happen but the page will turn, and I love that.

Now we're known less for snipers' nests / than nests of singing birds

Una sonrisa es uan boca triste vuelta del revés

What I remembered most clearly about this Jinja road was that on portions of it, for reasons no one could explain, butterflies settled in long fluffy tracts. There might be eighty feet of road carpeted by white butterflies, so many of them that if you drove too fast your tires lost their grip, and some people lost their lives, skidding on butterflies.

Drunk people, loud people, obvious and angry people, people stammering and stumbling, spilling drinks and scarfing small burned sausages and cheese cubes on toothpicks. They had surrendered all power and direction, they they were yelling and gasping. They strengthened me. I did not want to be that way. I stood calmer, observing them.

One thinks one is going to the tropics and one finds oneself in the Chinese version of Welwyn Garden City.

The only sound was birdsong, soon overwhelmed by the headlong buzz of two Border Patrol officers on all-terrain vehicles, zipping past me much too fast on the flat paths, their big wheels tossing up damp sand.

creating paradoxes that are clearly apparent on the border.

During the day the Mexican towns are tranquil enough; after dark, not so much.

It was soon clear as we ground through traffic that though Calexico, California, was a small town, Mexicali, on the other side of the thirty-foot fence, was a city of a million people, with an international airport, a large cathedral, a bullring, two museums, hospitals, four universities, a dental school, several public libraries, and industrial areas, sprawling in the desert of Baja

I had slipped into Mexico in a matter of minutes; returning, it took more than two hours in a line of uncomplaining Mexicans

The glare of gas station rest stops, mystical, comet-like as they rushed past, but melancholy and ordinary when we paused for the ten-minute breaks.

Nothing is stranger than being in a fairly bad place and being told that another place-your destination-is a great deal worse.

On that first visit, Nogales seemed to me a border town trying to save itself, and I thought succeeding. Walking in the city, I was struck by the distinct air of foreignness mingled with a pleasing ordinariness

But curious to see the fence, I drove to the Rio Grande Valley, south to Harlingen, over to McAllen, and down Twenty-Third Street to International Boulevard and the frontier at Hidalgo, where the thing was obvious, ugly, and unambiguous.

Perhaps it was working; side by side, Douglas (a town that had lost its industries) and Agua Prieta (a town that had gained many factories) stood out as the safest and most serene towns I saw in the whole of my traverse of the border.