Quotes About Atmosphere

Meteorology has ever been an apple of contention, as if the violent commotions of the atmosphere induced a sympathetic effect on the minds of those who have attempted to study them.

The westerly breeze was light and silent, as if it had been sent to cool a glass of tea.

At five o'clock Paris always has a current of eroticism in the air.

Strings of chili hung from the rafters, chili to wake them from their dreams, dreams born of scents and rhythms, and the warmth that fell from the sky like the fleeciest blanket.

Every room is painted a different color. As if there were one room for every separate mood: lacquer red for vehemence, pale turquoise for reveries, peach color for gentleness, green for repose, grey for work at the typewriter.

I am neither sad nor cheerful; the air here fills one with a kind of vague excitement and induces a state as far removed from cheerfulness as it is from sorrow; perhaps it is happiness.

The crackly, unobtrusive music of the fire was now accompanied by a barely audible chorus of bee-wings emerging from the hives.

the light had the clear, sharp quality which comes before rain.

Over the next 400 million years, the cyanobacteria—taking in carbon dioxide and giving back oxygen—turned the sky from

There were no larks anymore. There was only the setting sun spreading blood up the sky and the yowl of hounds on a breast-high scent.

It was night, and the sky spreading into a rain that fell like darkness visible, a glistering where there was no light.

El ocaso del día era como el fin del mundo, con esos atardeceres color violeta que hay en Bogotá, ciudad que es fea pero que tiene un cielo muy lindo, algo incomprensible

It's raining outside, and the rush of water is a million murmuring voices, cajoling, soothing, warning, impatient. Get moving, they say.

Perhaps because it was nighttime, when things that might have felt odd in daylight instead seemed just right.

I was the only one who ever went in there, and when I did the air always smelled stale and strange, pent up like the sorrow my mother carried in her shoulders, her heart, and her face.

It's cold. You should come inside.

Technically, it's a family restaurant, but it will only remind you of your family if your mom chain-smoked menthols.

David, you don't want to get rid of the cracks and the crevices in the building because that's where the ghosts hide. And if you get rid of the ghosts, the Chelsea will just be any other building.

The sky was the colour of sad weddings.

This song came on that sounded unlike anything I had ever heard: an aggressive drum machine pattern, unusual-sounding electronic noises, and of course, on top of it all, that voice. It struck me immediately, so warm and beautiful: The song was "Running Up that Hill (A Deal with God)." It was like a soundtrack to the evening. 

It was always November there.

The daylight too is strange, even outside, in the yard, as if something has happened to it, as if something has been done to it, before it is allowed to reach us. It has an acid, lemony cast, and comes in two intensities: either it is not enough to see by or it sears the sight.

other clocks all over the house joined in. Lewis sat entranced, listening to high-pitched dings, tinny whangs, melodious electric doorbell sounds, cuckoos from cuckoo clocks, and deep sinister Chinese gongs roaring bwaoww! bwaoww! These and many other clock sounds echoed through the house. Now and then during this concert Lewis looked at Jonathan. Jonathan did not look back. He was staring at the wall,

english autumn mornings are often like mornings nowhere else in the world. The air is cold. The floorboards are cold. It is perhaps this coldness which sharpens the tang of the hot cup of tea. Outside, steps on the gravel crunch a little more loudly than a month ago because of the very slight frost