Quotes About Window

B)ut what use is even the best of remedies, concocted by the most learned of apothecaries, if the patient throws the mixture out of the window and his physician after it?

An icon is like a window looking out upon eternity. Behind its two dimensional surface lies the garden of God, which is beyond dimension or size. Every time I entrust myself to these images, move beyond my curious questions about their origin, history, and artistic value, and let them speak to me in their own language, they draw me into closer communion with the God of love.

He is outside of everything, and alien everywhere. He is an aesthetic solitary. His beautiful, light imagination is the wing that on the autumn evening just brushes the dusky window.

Her imagination was by habit ridiculously active; when the door was not open it jumped out the window.

I will waste an extraordinary amount of time, you know. And if it's not watching television, I'll be sitting staring out of the window. And yes, I know there's the idea of the artist, sitting there doing nothing while things are going on, but actually, no. It's vacant space. I'm thinking about the laundry.

Fancy your having no sunshine in London yesterday! Here it was glorious, like full summer, and I sat up with the window wide open, listening to the discourse of two amorous thrushes.

Shakespeare snaking from the window to the door, to escape like we had.

Never trust a computer you can't throw out a window.

Never trust a computer you can't throw out a window.

the marvel of consciousness," as Vladimir Nabokov once called it, "that sudden window swinging open on a sunlit landscape amidst the night of non-being"—maybe

Ly-di-ah! I sit beneath your window, laaaass, singing 'cause I loooove your a—" "For the love of St. Francis of Assisi, someone call a vet. There is an injured animal screaming in pain outside," Charlotte interrupted the flow of music in ill-humor.

De afar?, noaptea se uita pe fereastr?.

The whole family sang: Over the river and through the woods, now grandmother's cap I spy! Hurray for the fun! Is the pudding done? Hurrah for the pumpkin pie! But Gran doesn't have a cap, said Sister. She has a scarf. Well, I spy it anyway--through the kitchen window, said Brother.

The eye: the window to the soul; the center of the face's beauty; the point where a person's identity is concentrated; but at the same time an optical instrument that requires constant washing, wetting, maintenance by a special liquid dosed with salt. So the gaze, the greatest marvel man possesses, is regularly interrupted by a mechanical washing action.

He looked down at her and realized how lovely she was and how difficult it would be to tear himself away. But the world beyond the window was even more beautiful. And if he was leaving a beloved woman for its sake, then that world would be even more enhanced by the price of a betrayed love.

The ocean pulsed outside our window. The sound of the waves crashing on the rocks below usually calmed me down, but the fear and chaos that were tangled in my mind made that an impossibility.

But my very feelings changed to repulsion and terror when I saw the whole man slowly emerge from the window and begin to crawl down the castle wall over that dreadful abyss, face down with his cloak spreading out around him like great wings.

When she saw my face at the window she threw herself forward, and shouted in a voice laden with menace, "Monster, give me my child!

I had hung my shaving glass by the window, and was just beginning to shave. Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder, and heard the Count's voice saying to me, "Good morning." I started, for it amazed me that I had not seen him, since the reflection of the glass covered the whole room behind me.

So, my dear, we will send him away to smoke the cigarette in the garden, whiles you and I have little talk all to ourselves.' I took the hint, and strolled about, and presently the professor came to the window and called me in. He

She laughs and looks out the window and I think for a minute that she's going to start to cry. I'm standing by the door and I look over at the Elvis Costello poster, at his eyes, watching her, watching us, and I try to get her away from it, so I tell her to come over here, sit down, and she thinks I want to hug her or something and she comes over to me and puts her arms around my back and says something like 'I think we've all lost some sort of feeling.

Moonlight flooded through the open window, illuminating a bed, a chest at its foot, and a small table and chair. There was nothing else, and what remained was splintered and broken and empty of anything useful. Bones from another life, the skeleton of better times—it made her cry all over again.

Her books on alchemy were marvellous objects, every page a work of the engraver's art, but they nowhere contained instructions like Be sure to open a window. They did have instructions like Adde Aqua Quirmis to the Zinc untile Rising Gas Yse Vigorousky Evolved, but never added Don't Doe Thys Atte Home or even And Say Fare-Thee-Welle to Thy Eyebrows.

I lay in the middle of an orgy-sized bed without the orgy, or anybody for company except a butterfly flirting with the sheers over the window.