Quotes About Atmosphere

the outside air was so hot and so humid it felt like you were the meat in a sandwich whose bread was the Devil's moist thighs

the sound of it nearly lost to the zipper-unzipping buzz of the cicadas.

Mood is painted in the margins: you create the image by negative space, dancing around it without ever saying it. 9.

There was a memory and a promise of blood in the air.

There were no chambers now along the passageway and consequently no lights. There was a glow up ahead, however—fitful and cold, but bright enough to illuminate both the ground she stumbled over, which was bare earth, and the silvery frost on the walls.

The paint hung in thin rinds from the ceiling, and the sooty windows turned every hour overcast.

rare frost that morning, the wind howling

If that happened to the harmless places, what do you think the haunted places looked like?

The sky was a sheet of slate but it was still warm, an August afternoon that let you know its kind was running out.

It had been a cool dawn. Wisps of white moisture hovered over the ground.

The french-fry smell was almost another person in our room, stumbling around in the dark

The light at this hour, on this street, is the secondhand gray of ghetto twilight, a dull mercury color.

Rain fell more steadily now. Grey and unrelenting. Nobody seemed to notice. Rain on the puddles. Rain on the high brickwork. Rain on the slate roofs. Rain on the rain itself.

DAWN UNLOCKED THE MORNING IN INCREMENTS OF GRAY.

Outside, the dark brushed the city and the wind unleashed the snow

whipped up a cloud of dirty

The light struck upon the trees in the garden, making one leaf transparent and then another. One bird chirped high up; there was a pause; another chirped lower down. The sun sharpended the walls of the house, and rested like the tip of a fan upon a white blind and made a fingerprint of a shadow under the leaf by the bedroom window. The blind stirred slightly, but all within was dim and unsubstantial. The birds sang their blank melody outside.

Melancholy were the sounds on a winter's night.

Illusions are to the soul what atmosphere is to the earth.

But Sasha was from Russia, where the sunsets are longer, the dawns less sudden and sentences are often left unfinished from doubt as how to best end them.

Illusions are to the soul what atmosphere is to the earth. Roll up that tender air and the plant dies, the colour fades. The earth we walk on is a parched cinder. It is marl we tread and fiery cobbles scorch our feet. By the truth we are undone. Life is a dream. 'Tis waking that kills us.

All great writers have, of course, an atmosphere in which they seem most at their ease and at their best; a mood of the general mind which they interpret and indeed almost discover, so that we come to read them rather for that than for any story or character or scene of seperate excellence.

But she could not reduce her vision to words, since it was no single shape coloured upon the dark, but rather a general excitement, an atmosphere, which, when she tried to visualize it, took form as a wind scouring the flanks of the northern hills and flashing light upon cornfields and pools.

We have our responsibilities as readers and even our importance. The standards we raise and the judgments we pass steal in the air and become part of the atmosphere which writers breathe as they work. An influence is created which tells upon them even if it never finds its way into print.