Quotes About Atmosphere

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 smarl we tread and fiery cobbles scorch our feet. By the truth we are undone. Life is a dream. 'Tis waking that kills us. He who robs us of our dreams robs us of our life...

A daddy-long-legs shot from corner to corner and hit the lamp globe. The wind blew straight dashes of rain across the window, which flashed silver as they passed through the light. A single leaf tapped hurriedly, persistently, upon the glass. There was a hurricane out at sea.

It was January. Snow was falling; snow had fallen all day. The sky spread like a grey goose's wing from which feathers where falling all over England.

The ghost of a roar of laughter came out to them, and was drowned at once in the wind.

Now all the candles were lit, and the faces on both sides of the table were brought nearer by the candle light, and composed, as they had not been in the twilight, into a party round a table

But the room was empty. The fire was still blazing; the chairs, drawn out in a circle, still seemed to hold the skeleton of the party in their empty arms.

All mists curl off the roof of my being.

The summer night was starless and stirless, with distant spasms of silent lightning.

Everything was too quiet to be natural. It seemed as if the silence was rising, rising—would suddenly brim over and break into laughter.

The elms and the poplars were turning their ruffled backs to a sudden onslaught of wind, and a black thunderhead loomed above Ramsdale's white church tower when I looked around me for the last time.

And in the meantime the rain had become a voluptuous shower.

They were contemplating moving into another house or, more exactly, loudly saying to each other, so as to be overheard by anyone who might be listening, that they were contemplating moving, when all at once the fiend was gone, as happens with the moskovett , that bitter blast, that colossus of cold air that blows on our eastern shores throughout March, and then one morning you hear the birds, and the flags hang flaccid, and the outlines of the world are again in place.

It's crowded and gay down there, with a masturbating Jazzband. No?

Couleur locale has been responsible for many hasty appreciations, and local color is not a fast color.

It's the company, not the cooking, that makes a meal.

El viento jamás había sonado de aquella manera en ningún otro lugar del mundo.

El aire es una biblioteca y registro de todas las vidas vividas, de todas las frases dichas, de todas las palabras que aún reverberan.

She looked around her apartment which seemed to be waiting for something. Lana hated that, when the room was a pregnant pause.

The leave are changing; I feel poetry in the air.

She was so wicked. Such a classic case of resentment and ambivalence bumping and brushing up against all that maternal instinct. The love and hate in her was as vast as space- all meteors, no atmosphere.

The urgent warnings: The dreamy terror of certain summer mornings.

So we found ourselves in an ancient place, the very air around us bound by chains.

Viola had a smile that could make the heavens open. She also had a frown of such scorn, it could send a man straight to hell.

Vaccaro's was