Quotes About Atmosphere

was still a fine, persistent drizzle. There was a word in Scots for it—"smirr.

The rain had not started falling yet, but it had scheduled an appointment.

What a place, George thought. Greasy, grim and ripe for murder.

The words must conjure the character of a place for readers who may never see it. This may seem like magic, or incomparable talent, but the inspiration starts with acute observation.

It was raining a motherfucker. It was raining a Dostoyevsky novel. It was raining a Kurosawa film. It was raining a Trout Mask Repilca.

Babette looked too good for the place tonight, but then goodness is only relative after all ("Steps Going Up" aka "Guillotine" aka "Men Must Die")

It had grown darker now; it was full night already, with the swiftness of the mountainous latitudes. The square of sky over the patio was soft and dark as indigo velour, with magnificent stars like many-legged silver spiders festooned on its underside. Below them the white roses gleamed phosphorescently in the starlight, with a magnesium-like glow. There was a tiny splash from the depths of the well as a pebble or grain of dislodged earth fell in. ("The Moon Of Montezuma")

It's six o'clock; my drink is at the three-quarter mark - three-quarters down not three-quarters up - and the night begins. ("New York Blues")

Clouds, too, can give light if only the sun shines on them.

I've often thought that a planet without water would be a dull, sad place. Most, if not all, water on this planet came from countless small comets thumping against the atmosphere (which continues at about ten thousand comets or pieces of comets per day, enough to add a twenty-five-foot depth of water across the entire globe every half a million years). That it comes from space suggests why it is so peculiar and fascinating here on earth. It is a substance from far beyond our reach.

I was struck by the ancient, pagan feel of the place. New Orleans doesn't feel like any other American city I've been to. It has an atmosphere like Rome or Istanbul, a sense of the veil being very thin between this world and the world of the fictional and the dead. It is an eerie, haunted, and beautiful place - as any port should be.

stop groaned with the wind that had

snowflakes make when they land on water, like the wail of a coyote; the sound reaches a climax and then fades away, all in about one

The 'Being Human' people were really cool and let me improvise. They had such a good working atmosphere. It was a cool set-up and a really good environment to be in.

We don't really have a staff room. We do have one, but … it's freezing in there. So at lunch times we sit down there with the children. We're always around, so the relationships are very different. You don't often hear raised voices here.

I do love to walk around in New York because people will notice me, smile, but they never bother anyone. New Yorkers are very cool. I love New York.

Pink quartz creates a more loving atmosphere; it is highly helpful for healers who don't want to fight power with power, but instead share love and compassion.

Today, at any moment, more water rushes through the atmosphere than flows through all the world's rivers combined.

The water vapor accumulated in the upper atmosphere for so long that when the surface finally cooled enough for the rains to touch down, they poured in catastrophic torrents for thousands of years.

Not infrequently in the wide skies over Yuma and other parts of the arid Southwest, residents watch sheets of rain begin to unfurl from auspicious purple storm clouds, backlit by the sun. But the rain stops halfway, hanging mid-horizon like a magician's trick. Known as rain streamers or by their scientific name VIRGA, the half-sheets evaporate into the dry air before the rain can reach the ground.

a long, boozy evening when her ebullience was so uncorrupted that she could shift a room's atmosphere

The atmosphere is only about .035 percent carbon dioxide,

I switch on the light beside my bed and the old, beautiful room takes shape – the four-poster with its carved oak pillars, the dark oak chest, the dressing table with its prude petticoat of spotted muslin, the low, uneven ceiling, the wavy oak floor. How many hundreds and thousands of people have awakened in this room; awakened to their sorrows and their joys, their hopes and their fears? Strange that I should have slept so well, untroubled by the haunting of their thoughts!

Homes slid past—hundreds of thousands of houses—and each one was a home, a secret place where people slept and ate and quarreled and made up again, where people were happy or miserable (or, even worse than miserable, were hopelessly resigned). Every house had its own peculiar atmosphere, its own peculiar smell, so that although there were dozens of houses, all alike to look at, they were all quite different.