Quotes About Winter

You're kind of a psycho. I get that." "I might be," Monica agreed, and gave her a slow, strange smile. "You're one smart little freak. Now run away, smart little freak, before I change my mind and stick you in one of these old suitcases for some architect to find a hundred years from now." Claire blinked. "Archaeologist." Monica's eyes turned winter cold. "Oh, you'd better start running away now.

Lily was mittens and hot chocolate and snow angels that lifted from the ground and danced in the air. She said she loved winter, and I wondered if there was any season she didn't love. I worked hard to accept her enthusiasm as genuine. My mental furnace was built for immolation, not warmth. I didn't understand how she could be so happy. But such was the love I had fallen into that I decided not to question it, and to live within it.

Life was like the ice on an early-winter pond: more fragile than it appeared to be, riddled by hidden fractures, with a cold darkness below.

I've always loved catching snow on my eyelashes.

It started to snow—light flakes that drifted down from the heavens like small feathers released from angel pillows.

the gusts of snow twisted themselves around our heads while the night fell.

January is the despairing heart of the Scottish winter

Actually, it wasn't bad," Claire said, surprisingly. "Mullein leaves are really very nice; quite as good as two-ply bathroom tissue. And in the winter or indoors, it was usually a bit of damp rag; not very sanitary, but comfortable enough.

I had turned the earth in my garden the day before, planting the winter seeds to sleep and swell, to dream their buried birth. Now is the time when we reenter the womb of the world, dreaming the dreams of snow and silence.

To the taste of breasts like apricots, the warm scent of a woman's navel when she wakens in the winter, the warmth of a mound that fills your hand like a peach, split with ripeness.

Snow was falling, and winter had come; the season of fire. Candles and hearth fire, that lovely, leaping paradox, that destruction contained but never tamed, held at a safe distance to warm and enchant, but always, still, with that small sense of danger.

the room. It was early January, and despite the furnace's best efforts, the only truly warm place at night was bed, under heavy blankets. I smiled at him, and rose from my chair, dropping the heavy wool

As the world turns toward winter and the nights grow long, people begin to wake in the dark. Lying in bed too long cramps the limbs, and dreams dreamt too long turn inward on themselves, grotesque as a Mandarin's fingernails. By and large, the human body isn't adapted for more than seven or eight hours' sleep—but what happens when the nights are longer than that?

There is no more perfect stillness than the solitude in the heart of a snowstorm

Being an athlete in a cold-weather sport is really difficult to deal with the asthma.

I used to snowboard 30 days a year. Now it's down to eight.

It's the middle of winter, more and more snow is falling on us, and my bookcases are collapsing underneath the snow, the snow is burying them slowly, while we all await deportation, and the photographs on the bookshelf are getting wet, pictures of all the people I have loved, and I wipe away the snow and shake the photographs, but the snow keeps falling, my fingers are already numb, and I have to let the snow bury the photos.

I'm dreaming of a white Christmas.

In winter when I put a quilt over myself its shadows on the wall seem to sway like an elephant.

hey sparrows no pissing on my old winter quilt!

You are about to begin reading Italo Calvino's new novel, If on a winter's night a traveler.

Day by day as autumn tanned the valley around us, now with bright frost weather, now with rain carrying the first chill of winter, my father stayed in the dusk of his grief. That sandbagged mood, I understand now, can only have been a kind of battle fatigue-the senses blasted around in him by that morning of death and the thousands of inflicting minutes it was followed by.

The first fall of snow is not only an event, it is a magical event. You go to bed in one kind of a world and wake up in another quite different, and if this is not enchantment then where is it to be found?

The Americans never walk. In winter too cold and in summer too hot.