Quotes About Windshield

sky dribbled just enough to make the windshield wipers squeal at the slowest setting.

Dirk turned on the car wipers, which grumbled because they didn't have quite enough rain to wipe away, so he turned them off again. Rain quickly speckled the windscreen. He turned on the wipers again, but they still refused to feel that the exercise was worthwhile, and scraped and squeaked in protest.

As he fell toward the highway, a horrible scenario flashed through his mind: his body smashing against an SUV's windshield, some annoyed commuter trying to push him off with the wipers. Stupid 16-year-old kid falling from the sky! I'm late!

Rain pounded on the Packard, reverberating through the car and into her bones. The wipers going full speed, banging on the steel frame of the windshield like a metronome out of control, she still could not see more than a few feet in front of her.

It was starting to rain, big sloppy drops spilling onto the windshield. No thunder yet. His driving was stymied by a clobbering sensation of loss. But what exactly had he lost? Himself as he had been, firm-bodied and flabby-minded? Some clarity of vision he once had possessed? Or was it the old, dormant chamber of his bicameral mind calling out to him, reminding him of the days when rocks and trees and statues had spoken with the voices of gods?

They were in flat empty country and she eased the silent car faster down a dead-straight road. The hot sky was tinted bottle-green by the windshield.

He glanced ahead at the sky. It was tinted bottle-green by the windshield glass, and it was blindingly clear.

A dent was found in the upper frame of the windshield. This too was measured and observed. Frazier thought that a bit of flying metal might have hit it.* Inch by inch, the FBI men examined the exterior of the automobile,

The radiating crack on the windshield was examined, measured, and photographed. The glass was double, fused together

The deputy chief also noticed a dent in the chrome plating at the top of the windshield. This was old, but he did not know it.

It began to drizzle rain and he turned on the windshield wipers; they made a great clatter like two idiots clapping in church.

No Daimon gets out of here alive. (They hit the invisible wall and rebounded off it.) Man. It really makes you feel for the bug on the windshield, doesn't it? (Acheron)

It was shame that swiped across her soul, like these windshield wipers before her: two large black long fingers, relentless and rhythmic in their chastisement.

WHEN the windshield was closed it became so filmed with rain that Claire fancied she was piloting a drowned car in dim spaces under the sea. When it was open, drops jabbed into her eyes and chilled her cheeks. She was excited and thoroughly miserable.

She remembered waiting for her beautiful Spencer, hearing the bell, peering out the windshield, watching the kids erupt-exit like ants scattering after a human boot toes their hill. She'd smile when she first laid eyes on him and most of the time, especially in the early days, Spencer would smile back. She

It had rained, she said, and I imagined the beads of small water on the windshield like a thousand eyes, or each drop a small imperfect reflection of a perfect moment.

The Jeep windshield was doing its damnedest to stay clear, but the amount of water flowing over it threatened to overwhelm the ionizer.

He had all the self-preservation instincts of a bug near a shiny windshield.

I think Hillary is going to be more hawkish perhaps than Obama. Perhaps more hawkish than Trump. Trump, though, is really a windshield wiper. He says one thing that makes sense and then says something that doesn't make sense.

There was a parking ticket on her windshield. She rolled down her window and reached out, yanking the paper from beneath the rusted windshield wiper. She wadded it into a ball and tossed it out the window. To her mind, ticketing this rattrap and expecting to get paid was like leaving a bill on the pillow at a homeless shelter.

A LIGHT mist condensed on Sonya Vance's windshield, turning the forested mountains

A LIGHT mist condensed on Sonya Vance's windshield, turning the forested mountains around her

World's flying like birds; my car's in flight. The city lights are spattered on my windshield like the fragments of the night. And I'm in flight. The sky's a wheel, a merry-go-round of wings and snow and steel, and fire. We'll tread the sky, we'll ride the scarlet horses.

When something large and oncoming passed, the windshield's big rectangle was for a moment incandesced and opaque with water, which the wipers heaved mightily to displace.