Quotes About Atmosphere

We live in an atmosphere choked with the fumes of ungrace. Grace comes from outside, as a gift and not an achievement.

I also felt a storm in the air. It prickled on the horizon. I felt it on my skin. The skies were clear, I could not wish for clearer. But I could feel the clouds massing against me, somewhere over the horizon.

And when you're talking about an atmosphere, oceans are very small. And it blows over and it sails over.

In the space of a few minutes the sky turned black and it began to rain.

The darkness was crisp, as though scraped of sight and smell by winter's razor.

the hot glare of evening winked into the chill glow of dusk in a heartbeat

The drapery was so thick and the furniture so cloaked that I half expected to find Sherlock Holmes thumb-wrestling with Jane Austen in the corner. It wasn't as dusty or smoky as one expects a parlor to be, but all the wood had the weight of card catalogs and the fabric seemed soaked in wine. Knee-high sculptures perched in corners and by the fireplace, while jacketless books crowded on shelves, peering down like old professors too tired to speak to one another.

She smells like marijuana smoke. It's not a bad smell. Just a sad one.

That night, the sky poured out such torrents that the city was a drum set, every surface a source of rhythms, pavements and windows and canvas awnings, street signs and parked cars, Dumpsters throbbing like tom-toms, garbage-can lids swishing as the wind swirled bursts of rain in imitation of a drummer brush-stroking the batter head of a snare.

Even as I regarded those two men, I became aware of the flying beams of the spotlights, to the north-east, painting ephemeral infinity symbols across the pregnant clouds that increasingly commanded the sky, of the distant roller-coaster chain clacking through the ratchet angles of the guideway as cars full of riders climbed an incline toward the next long drop, of the dusty smell of the campground, and of the scent of rain pending.

When they return to the Range Rover, a man looms beside it, shadowless in the hard, plumb light

Once the golden phase had passed, the sun used only the red and orange spectrum of its palette to paint the sky in advance of the long night of darkness, and by reflection the harbor waters caught fire.

Because, I can feel it coming, something powerful, the way you feel the air taking on weight when a thunderstorm is coming.

One of the three candles burned out, and darkness eagerly pulled its chair a little closer to the table.

The music was so mournful and emotional that it seemed like the only suitable thing to play.

The silence in the apartment is loud.

It was raining. Gigantic ferns leaned over us. The forest drifted down a hill. I could hear a creek rushing down among rocks. And you, you ridiculous people, you expect me to help you.

It was raining. Gigantic ferns leaned over us. The forest drifted down a hill. I could hear a creek rushing down among the rocks. And you, you ridiculous people, you expect me to help you.

the gusts of snow twisted themselves around our heads while the night fell.

while the jukebox sang softly to itself.

under Midwestern clouds like great grey brains

we heard music coming from inside — jazz. It sounded sophisticated and lonely.

we parked under a strange sky with a faint image of a quarter-moon super imposed on it.

Don't go on holiday to Blackpool, it's fucking horrible there.