Quotes About Vivid

relámpagos de risa carmesíes...

There should be so much more, not of orange, of words, of how terrible orange is and life.

I grew up in a household that was filled with Scottish and Irish ballads. So I think that the complexity and the melancholy and the languor of them has kind of gotten into my bones and that's the way I write. Now what does it contribute to my books? I don't know; I guess I would say that those are the kinds of books I like to read, books with vivid images and lots of mist and velvet cloaks and stuff. It's not as though I'm setting out to do that; it's just who I am.

brighter shades of blue and red than he had ever seen. The

The sun peeked over the horizon like the head of a giant radioactive manatee.

She has a sort of old-fashioned character that's passing away — a vivid identity.

For in Mexico, ladies and gentlemen, it's always high noon and what glows is fuchsia and what's dead is dead and no feather-dusters.

Looking at a fragment of The Millennium the other day, I pointed out . . . how hallucinatingly real were the oranges.

Convencido de la absoluta seguridad de la muerte, Grover se volvió de repente tremenda y arrolladoramente vivo.

When I think of flavours, I think colour, so lemon should be yellow and orange is orange.

I specifically remember doing the musical 'Sweet Charity' at Stagedoor. I was playing Vittorio Vidal, which is a very funny part, and some other small roles. I couldn't really sing that well, but there were so many fun bits, and I just remember the tremendous adrenaline rush I felt from being onstage and hearing the audience enjoying it.

They surrounded me, bare me. Their fingers like tentacles and their desires like knives. Their fingers traced my secrets and their desires carved my skin.

His ruby red rimmed moist eyes were two glasses of cranberry. He wore a cashmere sweater the color of Earl Grey tea...

A brief life burns brightly.

The red sun was pasted in the sky like a wafer.

But, strange to tell, though I could remember those first glowing days of my arrival, I could not without intense effort recall much of my life before that—save in the most indefinite terms. Indeed, when compared to the intensely vivid life I knew in Albion, my life before coming to the Otherworld seemed almost unutterably remote and insignificant, little more than a vague pantomime acted out in a dim, colorless, half-light.

Concrete, sensory details such as these allow readers to form vivid pictures in their minds of what is being described. That is how writers bring a scene to life.

The sky was the color of Edgar Allan Poe's pajamas.

I love color - I'm not a beige kind of girl

I love Dickens. I love the way he sets a scene.

I have been happy, though in a dream. I have been happy-and I love the theme: Dreams! in their vivid colouring of life As in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife

The depth of my feelings is proportional to the depth of the color.

In the summer of this year we made a journey to Transylvania, and went over the old ground which was, and is, to us so full of vivid and terrible memories.

I see many colors. They smell many scents. Our experience isn't the same. But it's comparably vivid.