Quotes About Windows

This evening when the setting sun was reflected in the water and in the windows and cast a bright golden glow over everything, it looked just like a picture by Cuyp.

Every night when I turn the lights out in my sixteenth-floor living room before I go to bed, I experience a shock of pleasure as I see the banks of lighted windows rising to the sky, crowding round me, and feel myself embraced by the anonymous in gathering of city dwellers. This swarm of human hives, also hanging anchored in space, is the New York design offering generic connection. The pleasure it gives soothes beyond all explanation.

Apple has struck a cultural nerve, especially with Generation X and Gen Y, while Windows and PC are viewed in essence as 'My parents' computer'.

Obsolescence and death, the reign of the archaic, the abandoned, and the corny: Really, if you saw Windows 3.0 on the sidewalk outside the building, would you bend over and pick it up?!?

I don't allow flying nuns in my convent," she said. "They tend to be frivolous, and during night flight, they're prone to crashing through windows.

Moving room to room, she lowers the pleated shades at all the windows.

Its perorations verge upon the ceaseless orations of the ocean: For reality's glow and glory, without poetry, Fade, like the red operas of sunset, The blue rivers and windows of morning.

A bus came. I climbed aboard and sat on the plastic seat while the things of our city turned in the windows like the images in a slot machine.

Outside the wide windows soft snow is drifting. Nearby, on the Nevsky Prospekt, life is blossoming. Far away, in the Carpathian Mountains, blood is flowing. C'est la vie.

The city, however, does not tell its past, but contains it like the lines of a hand, written in the corners of the streets, the gratings of the windows, the banisters of the steps, the antennae of the lightning roads, the poles of the flags, every segment marked in turn with scratches, indetations, scrolls.

Ma la città non dice il suo passato, lo contiene come le linee d'una mano, scritto negli spigoli delle vie, nelle griglie delle finestre, negli scorrimano delle scale,nelle antenne dei parafulmini,nelle aste delle bandiere, ogni segmento rigato a sua volta di graffi,seghettature,intagli,svirgole.

La ciudad no cuenta su pasado, lo contiene como las líneas de una mano, escrito en las esquinas de las calles, en las rejas de las ventanas

Pero la ciudad no cuenta su pasado, lo contiene como las líneas de una mano, escrito en las esquinas de las calles, en las rejas de las ventanas, en los pasamanos de las escaleras, en las antenas de los pararrayos, en las astas de las banderas, cada segmento surcado a su vez por arañazos, muescas, incisiones, comas. Italo Calvino. Las ciudades invisibles (Zaira)

The city, however, does not tell its past, but contains it like the lines of a hand, written in the corners of the streets, the gratings of the windows, the banisters of the steps, the antennae of the lightning rods, the poles of the flags, every segment marked in turn with scratches, indentations, scrolls.

I'm working on the Star Wars script today and the people in my office have covered up all my windows with black paper. I guess they wanted to make sure no one could see what I was doing. It seems rather extreme.

I need to get back to the office. Those windows won't stare out themselves all afternoon.

I need to get back to the office. Those windows won't stare out themselves all afternoon.

Your eyes are windows to your dreams; Your ears are windows to your mind; You nose is the door to your heart - you can win over any man with just your smell.

A wilderness of gilt, gleaming in the slant from the dust-furred windows: gilded cupids, gilded commodes and torchieres, and -- undercutting the old-wood smell -- the reek of turpentine, oil paint, and varnish.

Even now I remember those pictures, like pictures in a storybook one loved as a child. Radiant meadows, mountains vaporous in the trembling distance; leaves ankle-deep on a gusty autumn road; bonfires and fog in the valleys; cellos, dark window-panes, snow.

That was a cozy night, a happy night; lamps lit, sparkle of glasses, rain falling heavy on the roof. Outside, the treetops tumbled and tossed, with a foamy whoosh like club soda bubbling up in the glass. The windows were open and a damp cool breeze swirled through the curtains, bewitchingly wild and sweet.

The wisdom's in the trees not the glass windows.

Sunlight comes into your house not because you want it. It happens because you open the windows.

Little houses, bigger ones, scrolled and capacious porches, dark windows, leaves of trees already rich with May, homes of rooms which chambered sleep as honey is cherished, drifted past their slow walking and were left behind, and not a light in any home.