Quotes About Atmosphere

Earlier, I mentioned a related technology called direct air capture. It involves exactly what the name implies: capturing carbon directly from the air. DAC is more flexible than point capture, because you can do it anywhere. And in all likelihood, it'll be a crucial part of getting to zero; one study by the National Academy of Sciences found that we'll need to be removing about 10 billion tons of carbon dioxide a year by mid-century and about 20 billion by the end of the century.

Because every bit of carbon we put into the atmosphere adds to the greenhouse effect. There's no getting around physics.

If you like having an ozone layer, you can thank an international agreement called the Montreal Protocol.

And, because greenhouse gases remain in the atmosphere for so long, the planet will stay warm for a long time even after we get to zero.

Fifty-one billion is how many tons of greenhouse gases the world typically adds to the atmosphere every year.

only he wasn't satisfied with the noise level of the pathetic Clippers crowd, so he stepped away from the line and waved his arms. That's right, the Legend was imploring the crowd to pump up the volume. I

Night can swallow you up, yet none of it touches you. Around any corner, there's a promise of something daring and ideal and things are just getting going. There's something obscenely joyful behind every door, either that or somebody crying with their head in in their hands. A lazy rhythm looms in the dreamy air and the atmosphere pulsates with bygone duels, past-life romance, comrades requesting comrades to aid them in some way. You can't see it, but you know it's there

In the big parlor room where we cut it there was no air conditioning so we had to keep going outside between takes. But that was the way I liked it anyway. I don't like air conditioning to start with. It's hard to cut songs in air conditioned rooms where all the good air is gone. In the courtyard, it was raining soup.

Butterfield wanted out. Anticipating reelection, he heard Nixon tell Haldeman on several occasions that it would be, more than ever, a time for vengeance. "Now, we're going to get them, Bob," Nixon said. "Now we're going to nail those sons of bitches." The atmosphere of retribution aimed at Democrats, the media, the antiwar movement and any perceived Nixon opponent was pervasive.

The wood echoed to the hoarse ringing of other saws; somewhere, very far away, a nightingale was trying out its voice, and at longer intervals a blackbird whistled as if blowing dust out of a flute. Even the engine steam rose into the sky warbling like milk boiling up on a nursery alchohol stove.

Por la ventana se veían los largos regueros de lágrimas del crepúsculo en las negras mejillas de las nubes.

Le ciel bleu-vert pendait presque jusqu'au pavé et de grandes taches blanches marquaient sur le sol la place où des nuages venaient de se fracasser. (p. 220)

a wind howling began, which seemed to form all over the country, as far as the imagination could grasp it through the gloom of the night.

From the open window came the mingled odours of horse-sweat, peaches and sour milk.

Mr. Honeyfoot's post-chaise travelled through a world that seemed to contain a much higher proportion of chill grey sky and a much smaller one of solid comfortable earth than was usually the case.

It was a queer, sultry summer, the summer they electrocuted the Rosenbergs, and I didn't know what I was doing in New York.

This mizzle fits me like a sad jacket.

When we came out of the sunnily lit interior of the Ladies' Day offices, the streets were gray and fuming with rain. It wasn't the nice kind of rain that rinses. you clean, but the sort of rain I imagine they must have in Brazil. It flew straight down from the sky in drops the size of coffee saucers and hit the hot sidewalks with a hiss that sent clouds of steam writhing up from the gleaming, dark concrete.

New York was bad enough. By nine in the morning the fake, country-wet freshness that somehow seeped in overnight evaporated like the tail end of a sweet dream.

I stepped from the air-conditioned compartment onto the station platform, and the motherly breath of the suburbs enfolded me.

It was a queer, sultry summer, the summer they executed the Rosenbergs, and I didn't know what I was doing in New York.

In the air was the strong smell of masculinity which creates the ideal medium for me to exist in.

Noticed rooks squatting black in snowwhite fen, gray skies, black trees, mallard-green water.

I really love this city above any I've ever been in; it is dear and graceful and elegant and what one makes it.