Quotes About Wind

to hang a geometry book by strings on the balcony of their apartment so that the wind could "go through the book, choose its own problems, turn and tear out the pages.

We live our short lives on one side of the door; on the other is all of eternity. Time is the wind that blows through the keyhole.

It is an odd language, yours. You speak of passing time as in the Mountains we speak of passing wind. As if it were a thing to be gotten rid of.

A leaf turns in the wind, and you suddenly have a different perception of what colour it is.

Et vif comme la pensée, il m'échappa, dévalant la pente comme l'ombre d'un nuage quand le vent souffle

You speak of passing time as in the Mountains we speak of passing wind. As if it were a thing to be gotten rid of.

Every night, the wind blew. Every morning, we began our task by clearing the previous night's drifted snow.

For many years, Sierra had compared the Holy Spirit to the wind, as it said the the Bible, noting that it was always there, no matter how faint the breeze. The wind went where it wanted to go, and its path was easy to detect because it moved objects and people. But no one had ever seen the wind.

But the LORD was not in the wind. After the wind there was an earthquake, but the LORD was not in the earthquake. After the earthquake came a fire, but the LORD was not in the fire. And after the fire came a gentle whisper. 1 KINGS 19:11–12

Why did Cromwell do it? Did he not twist and overwork the law and man's reasoning beyond imagining to make my marriage to Henry possible?" "You forget he is a butterfly taken up by which ever wind is the strongest." "Yes, and there is only one wind in England," said I bitterly. "Its name is Henry.

how could you describe a hill and snow to someone who had never felt height or wind or that feathery, magical cold?

She was the only doctor's wife in Branford, Maine, who hung her wash on an outdoor clothesline instead of putting it through a dryer, because she liked to look out the window and see the clothes blowing in the wind. She had been especially delighted, one day, when one sleeve of the top of her husband's pajamas, prodded by the stiff breeze off the bay, reached over and grabbed her nightgown around the waist.

Annemarie's silvery blond hair flew behind her

she speeds up, swinging her arms and huffing, her scarf flying in the wind behind her. "Al!" she screeches. Al sinks to the floor of the car, the upper half of his body folded over the seat. "Shit! My wife!" "Your wife? Your dead wife?" "She's not exactly dead

All this wandering that you do, he said, leaning in the window, his face white as a cream cheese, his scar the carved zigzag of a snowmobile across a winter lake. Wind blew handsomely through his hair. How will anyone ever get close to you? I don't know, she said. She shook his hand through the window and then put on her gloves.

If you had forgotten, it would quickly come back to you. Aloneness was like riding a bike. At gunpoint. With the gun in your own hand. Aloneness was the air in your tires, the wind in your hair. You didn't have to go looking for it with open arms. With open arms, you fell off the bike: I was drinking my wine too quickly.

Aloneness was like riding a bike. At gunpoint. With the gun in your own hand. Aloneness was the air in your tires, the wind in your hair. You didn't have to go looking for it with open arms. With open arms, you fell off the bike: I was drinking my wine too quickly.

howling wind that set the flames a-roaring on the hearth. In the wide open door stood a huge man wrapped in a sheepskin cloak, the leather side outside, and a great fur cap now sodden with rain. He had a red beard and bushy brows of red, and there was a great scar on his cheekbone partly hidden by the beard.

Only the wind made a sound to be heard, a soft soughing that seemed to whisper of the impending rain. The

The house was still as death, and nothing but the wailing of the wind broke the deep hush.

Everyone scattered like leaves before a gust of wind, and the quiet, happy household was broken up as suddenly as if the paper had been an evil spell.

taking a remorseful satisfaction in the snowy walk and bitter wind.

I turn onto North Market Street to pass Thomas Wolfe's house. I'd planned to do my dissertation on Wolfe. My advisor argued against it. Wolfe is all but forgotten now, she said, which seemed all the more reason to do it, so he would not be forgotten, or only, as Wolfe himself wrote, by the wind grieved. The

Move with a spring & vegetable swiftness, Seed-case & burr & tremulous grasses, a grove—vocal in the wind—