Quotes About Glass

The Palestinian conflict is the glass ceiling of Israel's economy.

They seemed simple people, and he imagined that their society had no machines at all, but as they brought him through the town gates he saw delicate airborne ships of wood and glass rising like dragonflies from tall stone mooring-towers. Silvery discs, like misty mirrors, swivelled and pivoted on their undersides, and the air beneath them rippled like a heat-haze.

After all, television is confined to a glass box. No matter how gruesome the scenes on the screen may be, no blood will spill on the carpet. No matter how close television seems to be bring the day's events, they always remain distant enough to be viewed with dispassion. The global village can be visited and abandoned at will.

See, many people can recognize an enchanting world within every raindrop rested atop the petals of a blossoming pink dahlia, but fail to notice how captivating they can still be when sat upon faded glass.

Visual presentation of our heritage in glass is needed.

If you imagine yourself as a craftsman at ILM, you spend your days tumbling buses and animating shards of glass. You're doing a lot of visual effects work.

Everything is: the shadows in the glass Which, in between the day's two twilights, you Have scattered by the thousands, or shall strew Henceforward in the mirrors that you pass. And everything is part of that diverse Crystalline memory, the universe; — Jorge Luis Borges, from "Everness," transl. Richard Wilbur,, Wilbur's New and Collected Poems (HBJ, 1988)

He had made up a little hum that very morning, as he was doing his Stoutness Exercises in front of the glass: Tra-la-la, tra-la-la, as he stretched up as high as he could go, and then Tra-la-la, tra-la-oh, help!—la, as he tried to reach his toes.

Elastic, hard, and brittle: glass presents properties that do not always seem compatible and yield unpleasant surprises.

The lines of Pearl Art Glass are clean, certainly not cluttered.

To make the syrup: "Sauté the garlic in oil for one minute, then add the other ingredients. Simmer and cook over low flame for five minutes, let cool. Strain into a glass jar, cover and refrigerate. Take one teaspoon per day.

Among them, there was a glass bowl containing live shrimp immersed in white liquor. The drunken shrimp were still jumping, though less and less energetically.

The small wisdom is like water in a glass: clear, transparent, pure. The great wisdom is like the water in the sea: dark, mysterious, impenetrable.

It was dark by now, and electric light rained down in crossing lance-shapes through the glass ceiling from the buildings outside while the black body of the river undulated just beyond the windows, with the human figures inside interposed in reflection on its churning surfaces.

Glass really rewards risk. A lot of times with glass, you're just waiting for the piece to cool down or for some temperature to adjust, and there's split seconds where you've got a fraction of a second where you get to make a move a particular way, and you don't get to repeat it if you do it wrong.

You think that a wall as solid as the earth separates civilization from barbarism. I tell you the division is a thread, a sheet of glass. A touch here, a push there, and you bring back the reign of Saturn.

Commit a crime, and the earth is made of glass.

The rockets set the bony meadows afire, turned rock to lava, turned wood to charcoal, transmuted water to steam, made sand and silica into green glass which lay like shattered mirrors reflecting the invasion, all about. The rockets came like drums, beating in the night. The rockets came like locusts, swarming and settling in blooms of rosy smoke.

Empty the theaters save for clowns and furnish the rooms with glass walls and pretty colors running up and down the walls like confetti or blood or sherry or sauterne.

There was a crash like the falling parts of a dream fashioned out of warped glass, mirrors, and crystal prisms.

Nearby, an old man was similarly engaged in finding the pattern of his life in the depths of his glass.

Moonlit reflections trembled in the glass like schools of disturbed silver minnows.

Perhaps Time itself was draining off down an immense glass, with powdered darkness falling after to bury all.

Weight him, weight, weight him with the sleepiness of the moon. It was only a glass because he looked in it. It was nothing he could be told. It was a language he spoke, because he must, yet did not know. It was a page he had found in the handbook of heartbreak.