Quotes About Fog

Redwoods flourish in fog, but they don't like salt air. They tend to appear in valleys that are just out of sight of the sea. In their relationship with the sea, redwoods are like cats that long to be stroked but are shy to the touch.

When I returned, not to Berlin, but to Hamburg in the midst of the fog of the beginning of winter, to the road that runs right above it's river and docks, a castle which never existed and a fountain which is really a sewer, a gust of wind far sweeter and more fragrant than any red rose carried the smell of shit and floating soil like a tongue into my nostril.

I hear voices. A shout. A laugh. Clay's laugh. I strained to see through the night. Fog had rolled in from Lake Ontario, but I could hear him laughing. The concrete turned to grass. The fog wasn't from the lake, but from a pond. Our pond. I was at Stonehaven, bounding through the back acres. Clay was running ahead of me.

The fog's gone in here," I said. "It was marine fog. It doesn't penetrate the forest." "Yeah," Corey said. "I'm thinking the fog's not such a problem. It's very…dark. We don't know what's in there." "Yeah, we do," Sam said. "Bears, cougars, wolves…

It's fogging a little, but I won't slip off and hide in it. No...never again...

A bluetick hound bays out there in the fog, running scared and lost because he can't see. No tracks on the ground but the one's he's making, and he sniffs in every direction with his cold red-rubber nose and picks up no scent but his own fear, fear burning down into him like steam.

Nobody complains about all the fog. I know why, now: as bad as it is, you can slip back in it and feel safe. That's what McMurphy can't understand, us wanting to be safe. He keeps trying to drag us out of the fog, out in the open where we'd be easy to get at.

He keeps trying to drag us out of the fog, out in the open where we'd be easy to get at.

There's long spells — three days, years — when you can't see a thing, know where you are only by the speaker sounding overhead like a bell buoy clanging in the fog. When I can see, the guys are usually moving around as unconcerned as though they didn't notice so much as a mist in the air. I believe the fog affects their memory some way it doesn't affect mine.

Nadie se queja de la niebla. Ahora ya sé por qué: aunque resulte molesta, permite hundirse en ella y sentirse seguro. Es lo que McMurphy no comprende, que queramos estar seguros. Sigue intentando hacernos salir de la niebla, ponernos al descubierto, donde sería fácil atraparnos.

You could walk from North Tai Ping Zhuang over to the North Entrance of He Ping Street, and you may as well have smoked your way through two packs of Camels. You smoked the taxi driver's smoke as he spun sharply around a corner, you smoked the local party leader's smoke as he tried to establish order at a meeting, you smoked your boyfriend's smoke whether he loved you or not. Chinese-made cigarettes, foreign imports, dodgy rip-offs. The city was in a permanent fog.

The horizon was shitting a sun, casting a glow on a layer of fog that was settling in the low areas like puddles of ghost piss.

Because what is more like love than the ocean? You can play in it, drown in it. It can be clear and bright enough to hurt your eyes, or covered in fog; hidden behind a curve of road, and then suddenly there in full glory. Its waves come like breaths, in and out, in and out, body stretched to forever in its possibilities, and yet its heart lies deep, not fully knowable, inconceivably majestic.

I find myself thinking about this hue-mon all of the time. I wonder if it ever thought about us? Was there room in here for thoughts about beetles? Did it ever wonder how some glow? Or spray liquid fire? Or dance on water? Or drink fog? Maybe someday, if a hue-mon reads this journal, it will help them appreciate all of the amazing little aliens living underfoot.

Y]ou're in a fog. When you circle round, you watch us live. You watch us struggle and you're envious.

And depression settled over the kitchen like a wet fog.

What did it feel like?"(Glenn) "A dream, kind of, You know? The ones that are so real you wake up and wonder if they really happened. And then for the whole day, you walk around in this fog like ... pieces of it are clinging to you and won't let go.(Kevin)

Then, unbelievably, out of the mist came the miracle. First two points of mast, then sails, transparent and wraithlike in the fog, then, as Kit strained her eyes, the looming hull, the prow, and the curved tail of a fish. The Dolphin! Glory be to heaven! The most beautiful sight in the world! The Dolphin, moving down toward Wright's Island on a steady breeze.

That's the thing about depression: A human being can survive almost anything, as long as she sees the end in sight. But depression is so insidious, and its compounds daily, that it's impossible to ever see the end. The fog is like a cage without a key.

That's the thing about depression: A human being can survive almost anything, as long as she sees the end in sight. But depression is so insidious, and it compounds daily, that it's impossible to ever see the end. The fog is like a cage without a key.

January 25, and to McNeish it was a "proper sea fog," indicating the presence of the ice-free ocean nearby.

Deeply exciting, though, cliché was, as a concept. It was truth misted by overexpression, wasn't it, like a structure seen in a fog, something waiting to be re-felt, re-seen. Something dainty fumbled at through thick gloves. Cliché was true, obviously, which was why it had become cliché in the first place; so true that cliché actually protected you from its own truth by being what it was, nothing but cliché.

Fog is my weakness, and every time there is low fog, I am out and about with my camera.

Grief is a powerful force that settles in the heart like a dark, heavy fog. It was familiar territory to me.