Quotes About Cold

Little flashes of sun on the surface of a cold, dark sea.

I feel drawn to experiment with ways that technology can interact with notions of intimacy, because so much of technology is done in a way that's very cold and has such an opposite effect.

I have a Husky named Blu. One would think, given his country of origin, that he would love a cold water bath, but he is a third generation Husky who has quite adjusted to the climate in Bengaluru.

Outdoor hockey is what it is all about.

I grew up in Finland, so it's cold in Finland, we have ice rinks outdoors.

De kou die lippen kunnen voelen veroorzaakt zoveel meer pijn dan wat blote handen kunnen verdragen.

It's cold out there, colder than a ticket taker's smile at the Ivar Theatre on a Saturday night.

My daddy's face is a study. Winter moves into it and presides there. His eyes become a cliff of snow threatening to avalanche, his eyebrows bend like black limbs of leafless trees. His skin takes on the pale cheerless yellow of winter sun; for a jaw he has the edges of a snowbound field dotted with stubble; his high forehead is the frozen sweep of the Erie.

Damp veils of mist swirled around them. They were dreadfully cold (Moomintroll thought longingly of his woolly trousers) and surrounded completely by an awful floating emptiness. "I always thought clouds were soft and woolly and nice to be in," said Sniff, sneezing. "Ugh! I'm beginning to be sorry I ever came on this expedition.

I did not mind the cold so much when he was there.

At night, without the distant hint of sunlight, the room felt colder and more hollow. Clay stretched up and sniffed at the darkness that had fallen on the other side of the hole. He thought it smelled like stars.

He never had smoke rising from his nostrils the way the dragons flying overhead did. He never sneezed out bursts of flame (although he did sneeze quite a lot for a while after his time in the river). He never even breathed heat, not even on the coldest nights when they both really needed it.

Winter thinks the mountains are going to eat him,

Father's eyes, like fragments of ice, studied Darkstalker's every scale, and Darkstalker could feel the cold, congealing weight of Father's resentment. "He looks every inch a NightWing," Father growled. "Not a shred of me in him at all." Suspicion,

Winter slouched handsomely against the cave wall, wearing one of his most heroic scowls.

other side of the pavilion, he hissed, "Your Majesty, I think there's one of them right behind me." The dragon next to him looked around in alarm, spotted Winter, and leaped backward, nearly knocking one of her companions off the platform. "Oh my gosh, is that what they look like?" she cried. "Why's it pointy all over?" "Look at its tail!" yelped another. "It really is all spiky!" "And can you feel how cold it is?

ground with his talons. Winter and Peril were still hovering in

Winter — I want to go home.

There was something disagreeable, and somehow reptilian, about the cold, contained way Stephen took up his stance, raised his pistol, looked along the barrel with his pale eyes, and shot the head off the king of hearts.

When they had gone the Moungari fell silent, to wait through the cold hours for the sun that would bring first warmth, then heat, thirst, fire, visions. The next night he did not know where he was, did not feel the cold. The wind blew dust along the ground into his mouth as he sang.

Your cold mornings are filled with the heartache about the fact that although we are not at ease in this world, it is all we have, that it is ours but that it is full of strife, so that all we can call our own is strife; but even that is better than nothing at all, isn't it?

The mist, the rain, and cold, low clouds gave the train a feeling of early morning, a chill and predawn dimness that lasted until noon.

January snow lay thick on the ground—crusty, pitted, and hardened, some of it like the bubbly honeycomb of air-dried sea foam in the tide wrack down at the beach, the sort of snow that stays so long you get used to the intrusion of that world of uninvited white, a hooded subverted landscape, sparkling in the low flame of a sallow sunrise on a winter morning.

Raging politeness," this extreme friendliness is sometimes termed, but even if that is true, it is better than the cold stare or the averted eyes or the calculated snub I was used to in New England.