Quotes About Fog

At night thunderstorms arose often, shedding lightning that gave the terrain the pallor of a corpse. Fog would settle in for days, causing the edge of the cliff to look like the edge of the material world. At regular intervals the men heard the lost-calf moan of foghorns as steamships waited offshore for clarity.

In Calumet a thousand ornate streetlamps stood in a swamp, where they did nothing but ignite the fog and summon auras of mosquitoes.

it will be faithful realism, at least. Stammering is the native eloquence of us fog people.

ANNA [After a pause dreamily.] Funny! I do feel sort of nutty, to-night. I feel old. CHRIS [Mystified. ] Old? ANNA Sure like I'd been living a long, long time out here in the fog. [Frowning perplexedly.] I don't know how to tell you yust what I mean.

Sometimes it was hard to tell whether the fog was rolling in over the city or whether the city was drifting out to meet it.

The fog lying on Myrkvid Forest was dense and had an irregular shape, calling to mind a heap of whipped cream squeezed onto a cake by a lunatic cook.

A week of sweeping fogs has passed over and given me a strange sense of exile and desolation. I walk round the island nearly every day, yet I can see nothing anywhere but a mass of wet rock, a strip of surf, and then a tumult of waves.

Paris was dark and damp and cold and quiet. Cafés and restaurants had warm lights burning behind closed doors and fogged windows. The streets were wet and lined with small parked cars. The cars were all misted over with nighttime dew. We walked together south and west and crossed the Seine at the Pont de la Concorde. Turned west again along the Quai d'Orsay. The river was dark and sluggish. Nothing was moving on it. The streets were empty. Nobody was out and about.

The sky darkened, the liquid singing of the blackbirds diminished and ceased, mud hens swam back to shore, climbed up the banks and huddled in the willows. The lights of a farm came on in the brown distance where patches of tule fog lay on the barren muddy fields. A wind came with the darkness, rattling the license plate, and a low, honking flight of geese passed.

Out in the fog, weary, yet buoyant from the drinks, his mind dulled along with his aches and his energy returning, Tully was free of the sense of impending ordeal that had been with him for weeks. He felt whole, self-sufficient, felt his life had at last opened up and that now nothing stood between him and the future's infinite possibilities.

The uncertainty of our future is nothing more than a fog of breath on a windowpane.

At the top of the Incline he looked back down at the houses and the sand and the sea. But they were all helpless now, lost in the fog.

While he was thinking of her, the bus had bumbled away and she was crossing the slant intersection, coming directly towards him. Not to him; she didn't know he was there in the high foggy dark. He saw her face again as she passed under the yellow fog light, saw that she didn't like the darkness and fog and loneness. She started down the California Incline; he could hear her heels striking hard on the warped pavement as if the sound brought her some reassurance.

What leftists call the loss of the political is the fog they wander through because they've lost sight of the communist horizon.

A breeze wafted through the trees and settled like a fog. It did't smell like peaches at all. It smelled, strangely, like cinnamon and cayenne pepper. It smelled like far away.

Tell me what's the difference between hope and waiting because my heart doesn't know It constantly cuts itself on the glass of waiting It constantly gets lost in the fog of hope

A foghorn sounding through fog makes the fog seem to be everything.

The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not.

And again there was the long road, as straight as an arrow through the shimmering wall of fog, and the sudden apparition of the solitary columns of Persepolis on the terrace that seemed surreally suspended high above the plains

I'll disappear in the fog as a foreigner to all life, as a human island detached from the dream of the sea, as a uselessly existing ship that floats on the surface of everything.

I have in me like a haze]" I have in me like a haze Which holds and which is nothing A nostalgia for nothing at all, The desire for something vague. I'm wrapped by it As by a fog, and I see The final star shining Above the stub in my ashtray. I smoked my life. How uncertain All I saw or read! All The world is a great open book That smiles at me in an unknown tongue.

Eres lo que falta a todo. Eres lo que falta a cada cosa para poder amarla por siempre. Llave extraviada de las puertas del Templo, camino encubierto del Palacio, Isla lejana que la bruma nunca deja ver...

She says to the fog: it's all right, I'm staying with you

Mrs Dorothea's typewriter was like a heart, a giant heart beating in the middle of the fog and chaos.