Quotes About Atmosphere

At first there's nothing to see, but you feel a sort of weariness that tells you something is in the air.

The house was very quiet, and the fog—we are in November now—pressed against the windows like an excluded ghost.

It never bored them to hear words, words; they breathed them with the cool night air.

Gray clouds were charging across tissues of white, which stretched and shredded and tore slowly, until through their final layers there gleamed a hint of the disappearing blue. Summer was retreating. The wind roared, the trees groaned, yet the noise seemed insufficient for those vast operations in heaven. The weather was breaking up, breaking, broken, and it is a sense of the fit rather than of the supernatural that equips such crises with the salvos of angelic artillery.

So dark was the afternoon that some of the lights had been turned on inside, and the great building suggested a tomb, miraculously illuminated by spirits of the dead.

The neighbourhood was silent in the early morning, aside from the guy at the end of the street who played non-stop Slayer in his garage.

I felt that I breathed an atmosphere of sorrow.

When the KH-13s weren't imaging, the hydrazine-powered thrusters kept them high enough to reduce atmospheric drag.

It was a quaint, quiet square, very typical of London, full of an accidental stillness.

but the rain Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh Upon the glass and listen for reply...

but the rain Is full of ghosts tonight

The room is full of you! — As I came in And closed the door behind me, all at once A something in the air, intangible, yet stiff with meaning, struck my senses sick!—

Edinburgh. A soft gray loveliness, fog-shrouded, gray-green, gray-blue, gray-gray, mauve, melting, misting over, grave.

Lightning streaks like gunfire through the clouds, volleys of thunder shake the air.

They listened for a while to the perfect music of the wind and rain and night. To the fire and the simmering kettle.

The afternoon arrived like an aggrieved trade unionist.

I like people who smile when it's raining.

Fair weather cometh out of the north.

I have spread you abroad as the four winds of the heaven.

Frederick's dreaminess, his otherness—it's on him like a scent, and everyone can smell it.

The sky a pit of violet, edged with black.

The sky drops silver threads of sleet.

He feels only the raw, impassive surge of the moonlight as it strikes the tent above him and scatters.

October is here, and bright cold winds ought to pour off the ocean; leaves ought to tumble down the alleys. But the wind has come and gone. As if deciding it did not like the changes here.