Quotes About Road

The taste of his blood in my mouth made me ill, and I vomited beside the body until the taste of bile overwhelmed anything else. Then I left him lying in the middle of the road and ran back to the garage. I needed to check on Mac before I took on the task of dealing with the dead werewolf

Jarvis had to keep avoiding the increasing numbers of both rioters and fleeing citizens as well as a number of people in cars with the same idea. He was surprised to feel annoyed. Here was the first honest-to-goodness miracle he was witness to in his entire life as a clergyman and he wasn't able to see it because he had to keep his eyes on the road. Why were the mysteries of faith so inscrutable?

Music explains itself...It is the road and it is the map that shows the road. It is both together.

She smelled faintly of wildflowers. But beneath that she smelled like autumn leaves. Like the dark smell of her own hair, like road dust and the air before a summer storm.

brushed the silence down the road like trailing autumn leaves.

They smelled of road dust and horses. He breathed it in like perfume. Best of all was the noise. Leather creaking. Men laughing. The fire cracked and spat. The women flirted. Someone even knocked over a chair. For the first time in a long while there was no silence in the Waystone Inn. Or if there was, it was too faint to be noticed, or too well hidden. Kote

So as we rode there were many things unspoken. The tension built in the air between us as the road jounced away beneath the cart's wheels. There were gaps and breaks in our conversation, silences that stretched too long, silences that were short but terrifyingly deep.

A bartender named Murphy once told me to be careful when I hit the road because sometimes the road hits back. He was right.

Every morning he would go to sleep telling himself that he had had enough, that there would be no more of it, and every afternoon he would wake up with the same desire, the same irresistible urge to crawl back into the car. He wanted that solitude again, that nightlong rush through the emptiness, that rumbling of the road along his skin.

I can stand up for hope, faith, love But while I'm getting over certainty Stop helping God across the road Like a little old lady

They parted ways when they reached the stage road.

Meeting a Zen master on the road, Face him neither with words nor silence. Give him an uppercut And you will be called one who understands Zen.

The road ran along the north side of the river, a shy and obsequious road that dodged every bank and lift and wound through the pecan trees and never insisted on its own way.

No, seventy-two. He had just turned seventy-two on March 15, yesterday, as he had turned sixteen just before Horseshoe Bend and at that time it would have been beyond belief that he would even live to see this age, much less be traveling along a distant road far to the west, still in one piece, alive and unaccountably happy.

They rode up the faint marks of the old trace where thousands of sojourners walking and riding both had crossed it and before them the buffalo far back in time. She joined the stream of humanity that had gone down that road, just one more story in a stream of narratives both likely and unlikely that were being told somewhere even now, by someone, in a far place.

My name is John Calley, the man said. He poured coins back into the can out of his large, callused hand. He said, We should not have taken your money this morning on the road. I am regretting it.

Britt was restless when they had to stay in town for any length of time. He was wary of the white men. It was better on the road, traveling free of any rules and away from ex-Confederates and strange men come into the country from distant places. It was better to travel and sleep under the wagons with no company but their own. The road was like a very long and thin nation to itself, a country whose citizens were isolate and untrammeled, whose passports were all carte blanche.

The highway's closed at a certain point. You have a certain amount of miles that you can make. It's a recognition of mortality.

We are racing down Main Street. Arthur is right on the tail of a blck sedan with tinted windows that won't pull over. He slams the horn. "Arthur," I say. The car doesn't yield. "Arthur," I say. He hits the horn again, still close on the car's bummper. "Arthur, our turn was back there.

Aldersgate Street, the bottom of the A1 - which was the modern designation of the original Great North Road, built by the Romans two thousand years ago to march its garrisons to the very edge of the empire three hundred miles to the north. Their duty was to reinforce Hadrian's Wall, keeping the outer darkness at bay and the empire safe.

There were eight of them standing across the road a hundred meters short of the plaza. Pastel light from the buildings on either side glittered across their extravagant jeweled longcoats. One of them raised a long white spear and bowed slightly. "Silfen," Gore sighed, resisting the urge to give them the finger in return.

One adopted their language, that of the teachers and the schools, one had none of one's own. At first it was like a release, like a key, like a road. The only road in. Much later one discovers that what one was let into, at that time, was a tunnel. From which one can never again escape. Not entirely. Not in this life.

Now the angel of the LORD found Hagar by a spring of water in the desert—the spring along the road to Shur.

When the Canaanite king of Arad, who lived in the Negev, heard that Israel was coming along the road to Atharim, he attacked Israel and captured some prisoners.