Quotes About Summer

Late Hours" On summer nights the world moves within earshot on the interstate with its swish and growl, and occasional siren that sends chills through us. Sometimes, on clear, still nights, voices float into our bedroom, lunar and fragmented, as if the sky had let them go long before our birth. In winter we close the windows and read Chekhov, nearly weeping for his world. What luxury, to be so happy that we can grieve over imaginary lives.

There are Mornings" Even now, when the plot calls for me to turn to stone, the sun intervenes. Some mornings in summer, I step outside and the sky opens and pours itself into me as if I were a saint about to die. But the plot calls for me to live, be ordinary, say nothing to anyone. Inside the house, the mirrors burn when I pass.

We stand around the tray. Just staring at it. Forever in awe. The chicken fried steak will be just as she remembered it. The biscuits will flake just like they used to. The pecan pie will be sweet and will take her back to those times she sat at the tables just outside the shack on a summer's day. And for once, she'll have fresh strawberry ice cream to go with it.

Leah and Gregory met through friends. I imagine the introduction was something like, "Hey, he's rich and has a summer house in Montecito and she's a hot makeup artist who was a yoga instructor and can still put her legs behind her head." Aaaaand cue Mendelssohn's "Wedding March.

O summer day beside the joyous sea! O summer day so wonderful and white, So full of gladness and so full of pain! Forever and forever shalt thou be To some the gravestone of a dead delight, To some the landmark of a new domain.

If you know anything about summer in Louisiana you know that the heat, moist and heavy, presses down on the pavement until it sends up shimmering mirages, and lovers, looking for a little noontime solace, stick to one another in high-ceilinged bedrooms.

When one subtracts from life infancy (which is vegetation), sleep,eating and swilling, buttoning and unbuttoning -- how much remains of downright existence? The summer of a dormouse.

Veins raised themselves along the backs of my hands that summer. My handwriting changed several times. I began reading Time magazine. Soon after that it was time to go.

Go back," he said. "Can't. Stand aside?" "Can't." "So it's like that?" I said. Fix exhaled. Then he nodded. "Yeah." And for the first time in a decade the Winter Knight and Summer Knight went to war.

If I ever invade Calderon again, he said, it will be in the summer.

He did recall that the summer after graduating from college before he joined the state police he had read Shakespeare. It was the pure language that stupefied him. He would be in a diner reading A Midsummer Night's Dream and his acquaintances were confident he was studying for some test. The test turned out to be the nature of his mind. Shakespeare seemed even truer than history. Literature was against the abyss while history wallowed in it.

The world, simply enough, became as beautiful as it does to many children waking on a summer morning.

People usually take decades to sort out their view of the universe, if they bother to sort at all. I did my sorting during one freakish summer in which i was ambushed by science, fame and suggestions of the divine.

Yet aside from the Angie distraction, it was starting to feel like the summers before it, with long, anonymous, and forgettable, but nearly perfect days away from stuffy classrooms, sloppy joes...

Similarly, perhaps it never did snow that August in Vermont; perhaps there never were flurries in the night wind, and maybe no one else felt the ground hardening and summer already dead even as we pretended to bask in it, but that was how it felt to me, and it might as well have snowed, could have snowed, did snow.

so hot that August comes on not like a month but like an affliction;

Were we unusually dependent on one another the summer we swam and watched Tenko and went to dinner at Morton's? Or were we unusually lucky?

By way of comment I offer only that an attack of vertigo and nausea does not now seem to me an inappropriate response to the summer of 1968.

pobra canícula, també la seva glòria és incerta...

ORANGE JULIUS 3 cups orange juice 1 envelope dry Dream Whip (the kind that makes 2 cups) 1 package dry vanilla pudding (the kind that makes 2 cups) 3 more cups orange juice Pour the orange juice into a blender. Add the dry Dream Whip and the dry pudding. Blend it for one minute on low and another minute on medium speed.   Pour the mixture in a 2-quart pitcher. Add another 3 cups of orange juice and stir well.   Serve over ice.   Yield: Makes almost 2 quarts.

You're right. I forgot that barns were heated. Hannah didn't bother to correct her sister. Strictly speaking, Andrea was right, barns were heated. They were kept warm by herding in all the cattle, keeping them together in a closed space and utilizing their body heat. When it came to barns in the winter BTUs stood for Bunched Together Until Summer.

She'd fallen asleep in her favorite summer sleep outfit, an extra-long, extra-large tank top in such an eye-popping shade of magenta that she hoped Moishe's vet, Dr. Hagaman, was right and cats truly were color-blind.

We came in the wind of the carnival. A wind of change, or promises. The merry wind, the magical wind, making March hares of everyone, tumbling blossoms and coat-tails and hats; rushing towards summer in a frenzy of exuberance.

The smell of thyme was pungent in the air. It grew wild by the roadside. Thyme improves the memory, Joe used to say. He used to make a syrup out of it, keeping it in a bottle in the pantry. Two tablespoonsful every morning before breakfast. That clear greenish liquid smelled exactly like the night air over Lansquenet, crisp and earthy and nostalgic, like a summer day's weeding in the herb garden, and the radio on...