Quotes About Color

I hate it as one hates sin or pestilence or--the color work in a ten-cent magazine.

los colores no pueden comprenderse, se sienten.

El color es el tacto del ojo, la música de los sordos, una palabra en la oscuridad.

La poesía y la pintura, el color y la palabra, son hermanos, ya lo sabes.

Whenever I think of these writers together, I am reminded that what gives a city its special character is not just its topography or its buildings but rather the sum total of every chance encounter, every memory, letter, color, and image jostling in its inhabitants' crowded memories after they have been living, like me, on the same streets for fifty years.

I tako, što više bojim, ja kao da svijetu kazujem budi i svijet biva iz moje boje krvi. Onaj koji ne vidi, taj pori?e, ali mene ima svuda.

Explícale la sensación del rojo a alguien que nunca lo ha visto, maestro. -Si lo tocáramos con la punta de un dedo sería entre el hierro y el cobre. Si lo cogiéramos en la mano, quemaría. Si lo porbáramos tendría un sabor pleno como de carne salada. Si nos lo lleváramos a la boca, nos la llenaría. Si lo oliéramos, olería a caballo. Si oliera como una flor se parecería a una margarita, no a una rosa roja

Culoarea este mângâierea ochiului, muzica surzilor - un cuvânt în întuneric. Deoarece am ascultat, vreme de zeci de mii de ani, spusele sufletelor ca pe un vuiet de vânt trecând din carte în carte È™i din lucru în lucru, am s? v? spun c? atingerea mea seam?n? cu atingerea îngerilor.

Objasnite nekome tko nikad nije iskusio osje?aj crvenog, objasnite mu kakva je to boja, uvaženi majstore. Da je promiješamo vrhom prsta, osjetili bismo je kao nešto izme?u željeza i bakra. Kapnemo li je na dlan, pekla bi nas. Da je liznemo, bila bi jaka kao zasoljeno meso. Kad bismo je stavili u usta, posve bi nas ispunila. Kad bismo je pomirisali, mirisala bi na konja. Da miriše kao cvijet, nalikovala bi kamilici, ne crvenoj ruži.

Mere color, unspoiled by meaning, and unallied with definite form, can speak to the soul in a thousand different ways.

One should absorb the colour of life, but one should never remember its details. Details are always vulgar.

You may fancy yourself safe and think yourself strong. But a chance tone of color in a room or a morning sky, a particular perfume that you had once loved and that brings subtle memories with it, a line from a forgotten poem that you had come across again, a cadence from a piece of music that you had ceased to play. I tell you Dorian, that it is on things like these that our lives depend.

But a chance tone of colour in a room or a morning sky, a particular perfume that you had once loved and that brings subtle memories with it, a line from a forgotten poem that you had come across again, a cadence from a piece of music that you had ceased to play— I tell you, Dorian, that it is on things like these that our lives depend.

The sky was pure opal now.

I don't know who started the myth that sheep are fluffy and white. They were more the color of an old mop and just as matted with dirt.

He had hidden in a city filled with black glass. But its surfaces made poor reflections, clinging jealously to their color as if they would reveal terrible pictures if they were allowed to clear.

And the dreams so rich in color. How else would death call you? Waking in the cold dawn it all turned to ash instantly. Like certain ancient frescoes entombed for centuries suddenly exposed to the day.

And the dreams so rich in color. How else would death call you? Waking in the cold dawn it all turned to ash instantly.

Glass flowers exploding. Slow trail of colors down the sky like stains dispersing in the sea, candescent polyps extinguished in the depths.

And the dreams so rich in color. How else would death call you?

If you stretched a piece of music—so to speak—as the tone drew away the color would fade.

Every book should begin with attractive endpapers. Preferably in a dark colour: dark red or dark blue, depending on the binding. When you open the book it's like going to the theatre. First you see the curtain. Then it's pulled aside and the show begins.

Fear was not red, fear is pale as a dead man's face

The unicorns lifted their heads. Of course they weren't white. Why were things in this world always white-washed? Their hides were brown and grey, mottled black, and pale yellow like the autumn sun drifting through the damp fog above.