Quotes About Window

One day, she explained, he'd pass by the window and, given the correct lighting, moment, and identical gesture, his shadow would match, for an instant, the painted one. His feet tingled as he stood uneasily at the edge of the flat, dark shape. 'It's only a matter of time,' she said.

Shit," I said. I had been looking out the window, fingers slightly parting thin drapes. "One of those things is . . . ah shit. They're coming this way." "The zombies?" "No, Dave. The pizza guy. I placed an order when I knew we were going to be here for a while," I

Sheets of rain were ripping themselves on the apple trees outside the window.

How often had that hydrant even been opened? Did you jet water through a car window, what, twice at best? Summer burned just a few afternoons long, in the end. As for flying, Dose never even glanced at the sky. Flying was a summer within a summer, a whim. So why think of it at all?

She maintained a careful balance by her window, never allowing the men to come too close, never allowing them to stray too far.

faces pressed against the pane, full of little, content with sawdust tears.

The whole street took part in the serenade to Flor, Flor leaning against her high window, all ruffles and lace, drenched in moonlight. Down below Vadinho, her gallant knight, with the red rose in his hand, so red it was almost black, the rose of her love.

En la ventana estaban los tejados de siempre y el sol nublado de las seis. Me pareció increíble que ese día sin premoniciones ni símbolos fuera el de mi muerte implacable.

You fling the window open and the room is instantly flooded with this outer, pearl-laden haze, which is part damp oxygen, part coffee and prayers.

A shaft of light from the window falls onto the paper. Has it been there all this time? Dust motes twirl inside like acrobats in a spotlight, freed from gravity, a sight so beautiful he feels a catch in his chest.

Y lo mismo que yo, alzando la cara entre dos restas, entre dos párrafos, miraba aquella plétora por los cristales de la ventana, detrás de la lluvia que sólo cubre el mundo para que podamos ver en su lugar nuestros sueños, la saciedad de nuestros sueños detrás de esa cortina gris donde todo está permitido.

Stray birds of summer come to my window to sing and fly away. And yellow leaves of autumn, which have no songs, flutter and fall there with a sigh.

It was chilly weather. Through the window the rays of the sun touched my feet, and the slight warmth was very welcome. It was almost eight o'clock, and the early pedestrians were returning home with their heads covered.

A happy poet who writes about his window and the glass doors of his bookcases that reflect pensively a beloved, lonely vastness. This is the poet I would have liked to become (...)

Man is timid and apologetic. He is no longer upright. He dares not say "I think", "I am" but quotes some saint or sage. He is ashamed before the blade of grass or the blowing rose. These roses under my window make no reference to former roses or to better ones; they are for what they are, they exist with God to-day.

I went to bed and woke in the middle of the night thinking I heard someone cry, thinking I myself was weeping, and I felt my face and it was dry. Then I looked at the window and thought: Why, yes, it's just the rain, the rain, always the rain, and turned over, sadder still, and fumbled about for my dripping sleep and tried to slip it back on.

On page 86, This wasn't like Jim. Always before, the window slid up, Jim's head popped out, ripe with yells, secret hissings, giggles, riots and rebel charges. This quote shows that something isn't right, that this isn't what Will was expecting of Jim. This quote can foreshadow of what could happen later in the book.

Man was matter, that was Snowden's secret. Drop him out a window and he'll fall. Set fire to him and he'll burn. Bury him and he'll rot, like other kinds of garbage. That was Snowden's secret. Ripeness was all. 'I'm cold,' Snowden said. 'I'm cold. 'There, there,' said Yossarian. 'There, there.

There are some who believe the poem can be a guide, a Virgil, can be a window into a way of being. Do I believe this? Does anyone believe this anymore?

In the subway the trains move so swiftly you can never catch your breath. Outside the grimy window that's a reflecting surface like a mirror mostly there are the rushing tunnel walls, that slow as the train slows for a station, and the doors open with a pneumatic hiss like the sigh of a great ugly beast, and passengers lurch off, and new passengers lurch on, and I lift my eyes hopeful and yearning Who will be my destiny? Which one of you?

Living with her taught me this: That silence is a thick and dark curtain, the kind that pulls down over a shop window; that love is the repercussion of a stone bouncing off that same window - and that pain is something you can embrace, like a rag doll nobody will ask you to share.

la vida dura lo que se tarda en pasar junto a una ventana.

life is just as long as the time it takes to pass by a window.

It is said that travelers who approach Geneva by train from Zurich are frequently so overcome by its beauty that they hurl their return tickets out of the window and vow never to leave.