Quotes About Atmosphere

You don't want to be too hot in the club. And ambience is important - no fog machines.

Saigon is hot, full of atmosphere, activity, and commerce.

I love the Bowery Hotel by night.

Humans are contributing to additional carbon dioxide in the atmosphere.

Mars has a bit of air pressure; maybe we can build up that atmosphere to be a bit more accommodating to humans.

Teasing and a sense of humor, if you can develop that in your kids, and if you can exercise it with the kids, just makes for a pleasanter atmosphere.

A hundred years ago, concerts were far more come-what-may - people played cards, drank beer and appreciated the music. If we go some way towards restoring that spirit, I'll be happy.

I could feel the night hanging on me like a soft, damp bedgown

She) could not only keep quiet, she could infuse the room with a mood of her choosing, like an octopus and its ink.

The Devil lurked nearby in our Kansas town, an evil that was as natural and physical as a hillside.

The day after Independence Day, the sulfur from the fireworks mingling with the ocean salt - summer.

The unpainted walls of the long rectangular room were soaked with the smell of greasy chicken and warm, headless beer. The brown and pink faces floated above the trails of used cigarette smoke like bodiless carnival balloons.

Colonel Burr sat wreathed in smoke from a long seegar.

and the Creole houses were invisible behind the rain.

Decía ver las escenas que contaba como a través del ojo móvil de una cámara. Y la cámara seguía a los personajes, captaba rasgos y detalles significativos, iluminados o en penumbra, en primer plano o como figuras al fondo de la escena, entre la luz, el claroscuro y lo negro.

Silence like a plant put out tendrils: it seemed to grow under the door and spread its leaves in the room where I stood.

Earth's atmosphere is 80 percent nitrogen," he pointed out. "We don't even breathe nitrogen.

Rain started to fall. She looked up and regarded the crack in the gray sky. It was spring, and the weather had—in typical Pacific Northwest fashion—forgotten the season.

And from the pink and purple palette of the perished evening, a blue-black night rose up around us as we rode.

The dark clouds, which had painted their sombre moods on the sky for weeks, gathered from horizon to horizon, and seemed to press upon the tops of the tallest trees.

Outside on the street early evening glowed on every face, as if the whole world was blushing to think what the night would bring.

Language and music changed with every step, and every restaurant spilled a different scent into the boiling air.

I grew up a Phillies fan. Me and my buddies tailgated a couple of times when they won the World Series. I like just being in that atmosphere.

It is hard to imagine the World Series being held in the sweet hazy sunshine of late September rather than the sour night air of late October, but that is precisely what has transpired in baseball over the past 50 years, a deterioration from light to darkness.