Quotes About Vivid

takes us directly to visceral memories, transporting us to a time and place instantly.

House Speaker Thomas Reed could destroy an argument or expose a fallacy in fewer words than anyone else. His language was vivid and picturesque. He had a way of phrasing things which was peculiarly apt and peculiarly his own.

slaughter. And yet, so great is Mrs. Tuchman's skill that the reader forgets what he knows. Surrounded by the thunder of guns, the thrust and parry of bayonet and saber, he becomes almost a participant. Will the exhausted Germans keep coming? Can the desperate French and British hold? Will Paris fall? Mrs. Tuchman's

My special thing as a kid was to play dead because I thought I was really good at it. When I was 7 or 8, I even did it in the bathroom with a hair dryer in the bathtub. I realized that I was good at it because each time my mom would scream.

I've always believed human blood is red because it really needs to draw attention to itself.

I'll refer to my music in color, like 'This song needs to be bright red.'

That guttural, hissing mumble, with all its "Tz" and "zl" and "rr" noises, like a drunk Scotch-Jew having trouble with his false teeth, is something you don't forget in a hurry. So

IT'S CURIOUS THAT A RED EMBER LOOKS MORE ALIVE, GIVES YOU MORE OF A FEELING OF LIFE THAN ANY LIVING THING.

It was an endless variety. And everybody came and no one made any difference. Gertrude Stein sat peacefully in a chair and those who could did the same, the rest stood. There were the friends who sat around the stove and talked and there were the endless strangers who came and went. My memory of it is very vivid.

Tolkien is as good as Dickens at sketching a scene.

Sounds buzz around me, and I'm sure the painted dragonflies have come loose from the frieze on our walls to flap their wings in my ears, making my skin prickle and crawl as tides of sickness wash me away.

I felt him in my mind, even more vividly than I felt him in my body, a hurtful, hateful rending presence, like the color of blood, like the taste of iron, like the scent of burning, destroying everything in his path until he reached for the core of my power and seized it.

This brew could make a dead eunuch piss lightning

The early summer sky was the color of cat vomit.

Time will mellow it, make it a moment for laughter. But now it was not funny, now I did not laugh. It was not the future, it was the present. It was too vivid and too real.

Don't say the old lady screamed. Bring her on and let her scream.

The last time I saw her was red. The sky was like soup, boiling and stirring. In some places, it was burned. There were black crumbs, and pepper, streaked across the redness.

Her blood loudened.

Fleet Street was choked with red-headed folk, and Pope's Court looked like a coster's orange barrow. I should not have thought there were so many in the whole country as were brought together by that single advertisement. Every shade of colour they were — straw, lemon, orange, brick, Irish-setter, liver, clay; but, as Spaulding said, there were not many who had the real vivid flame-coloured tint.

Since the day I'd left Yoroido, I'd done nothing but worry that every turn of life's wheel would bring yet another obstacle into my path; and of course, it was the worrying and the struggle that had always made life so vividly real to me.

I have never read anything quite like Mark Haddon's funny and agonizingly honest book, or encountered a narrator more vivid and memorable. I advise you to buy two copies; you won't want to lend yours out.

I'd done nothing but worry that every turn of life's wheel would bring yet another obstacle into my path; and of course, it was the worrying and the struggle that had always made life so vividly real to me. When we fight upstream against a rocky undercurrent, every foothold takes on a kind of urgency.

The sky is a soggy purple.

I'm having a magenta day. Not just red, but magenta!