Quotes About Vivid

The deep and vivid blueness of the sky was a little disorientating. The sunshine was headache-bright, bothered my eyes.

In the morning light the land and trees and the surface of the river were the color of fresh blood.

Es ist natürlich wenn uns ein Unglück, oder etwas Schreckliches im Vergnügen überrascht, dass es stärkere Eindrücke auf uns macht als sonst, teils wegen des Gegensatzes, der sich so lebhaft empfinden lässt, teils und noch mehr, weil unsere Sinne einmal der Fühlbarkeit geöffnet sind und also desto schneller einen Eindruck annehmen.

In the colorful reflection we have what is life.

It does not matter that Dickens' world is not life-like; it is alive.

Going from crying to laughing that fast and hard happens maybe five times in your life and that extreme right turn is the reason why we are alive, and I believe it extends our life by many years.

From where you are you can hear in Cockle Row in the spring, moonless night, Miss Price, dressmaker and sweetshop-keeper, dream of her lover, tall as the town clock tower, Samson syrup-gold-maned, whacking thighed and piping hot, thunderbolt-bass'd and barnacle-breasted, flailing up the cockles with his eyes like blowlamps and scooping low over her lonely loving hotwaterbottled body.

He has dreams—not exactly spiritual dreams: but dreams of the tangible and the actual: robust dreams, which take him, not to heaven, but another earth.

Mrs. Munt did not see, and indeed Margaret was making a most questionable statement—that any emotion, any interest once vividly aroused, can wholly die.

Indeed, he was sensitive rather than responsive. In every remark he found a meaning, but not always the true meaning, and his life, though vivid, was largely a dream.

He looked at her as she stood by the pool's edge. She was got up smart, as she phrased it, and she reminded him of some brilliant flower that has no leaves of its own, but blooms abruptly out of a world of green.

I was walking along a path with two friends – the sun was setting – suddenly the sky turned blood red – I paused, feeling exhausted, and leaned on the fence – there was blood and tongues of fire above the blue-black fjord and the city – my friends walked on, and I stood there trembling with anxiety – and I sensed an infinite scream passing through nature.

I was walking along the road with two friends – the sun was setting – suddenly the sky turned blood red – I paused, feeling exhausted, and leaned on the fence – there was blood and tongues of fire above the blue-black fjord and the city – my friends walked on, and I stood there trembling with anxiety – and I sensed an infinite scream passing through nature.

Strolling on, it seems to me that the strangeness and wonder of existence are emphasized here, in the desert, by the comparative sparsity of the flora and fauna: life not crowded upon life as in other places but scattered abroad in spareness and simplicity, with a generous gift of space for each herb and brush and tree, each stem of grass, so that the living organism stands out bold and brave and vivid against the lifeless sand and barren rock.

And the skies: in one day the sky could travel from green at dawn to a noontime blue so severe it was almost black to hot silver in the afternoon to roiling burgundy at sunset. Just before night it flowered in yawning, imperial violets. Wedges of mauve, cauldrons of peach—skies more like drugs than colors.

We all dream. We dream vividly, depending on our nature. Our existence is beyond our explanation, whether we believe in God or we have religion or we're atheist.

I have the craziest dreams when I'm digesting a massive amount. It feels so real, it's psychedelic.

I'm a purple girl!

The signal for the train's departure was a very bright red; that is about as passionate a statement as I can get into that scene.

And over walls and earth and trees and swinging sprays and tendrils the fair green veil of tender little leaves had crept, and in the grass under the trees and the gray urns in the alcoves and here and there everywhere were touches or splashes of gold and purple and white and the trees were showing pink and snow above his head and there were fluttering of wings and faint sweet pipes and humming and scents and scents.

What is stranger than memory, that selects a certain day to remain vivid, when thousands of others are totally lost?

Children of Dune is an exciting, vividly imagined novel. It is Frank Herbert at the top of his craft. Brian Herbert Seattle, Washington January 11, 2008

Children of Dune is an exciting, vividly imagined novel. It is Frank Herbert at the top of his craft.

Anything I do is as theatrical as I can get it.