Quotes About Ferry

Flirtation, so effortlessly accomplished. Mention of the train had done it. Train unspecified; they both knew which. They'd ridden together and now shared the ferry, and though a thousand identical to her might have strolled past his Charlottenburg café window in two weeks, the shared destination worked its paltry magic. And both tall. This little was enough to excuse lust as destiny.

I have lately returned from Harpers Ferry, to which place I was suddenly called, on the 17th instant, by causes the most disturbing and destructive to the peace and safety of this State.

Did you know, young lady, said Watkin to her, that the Book of Revelation was written on Patmos? It was indeed. By Saint John the Divine, as you know. To me it shows very clear signs of having been written while waiting for a ferry. Oh, yes, I think so. It starts off, doesn't it, with that kind of dreaminess you get when you're killing time, getting bored, you know, just making things up, and then gradually grows to a sort of climax of hallucinatory despair.

Well, what you have to understand, young lady, is that the Greeks, not content with dominating the culture of the Classical world, are also responsible for the greatest, some would say the only, work of true creative imagination produced this century as well. I refer of course to the Greek ferry timetables. A work of the sublimest fiction. Anyone who has traveled in the Aegean will confirm this. Hmm, yes. I think so.

In a few more weeks, the ferry that runs between the island and the mainland would shut down for a couple of months. Then we'd be trapped. Deranged killers and psychos would have a field day before the first thaw. And no one would know until it was too late. Hadn't I seen that scenario in a movie? I shuddered at the thought. "So why do you think the owners wanted to sell the place?" I asked. "Because it's haunted.

My aspiration to spend time at sea as requisite literary training died long ago, as a teenager, on a white-knuckled ferry ride to Elba during a torrential rainstorm [Kushner, Rachel, Diary , London Review of Books, January 14, 2015].

I grew up in the suburbs of Sydney, an arid kind of place, but every day I took the ferry across the harbour to get to school. I'd watch the ships coming in and going out.

Abiding love that has endured the years—that we see only rarely. When we do, we're only too glad to ferry the couple together.

Ah, gods, hope. Our savior and our tormentor, the price and ferry pass for the dreams that carry us to the future.

The answer scrawled on a blank page in a daily newspaper, was conceived whilst aboard a ferry.

I live on an island, and my community is served by a ferry that goes three times a day.

The Staten Island Ferry remains a potential terrorist target.

River on the ferry, Billy swam beside it, and Harriet remembered the donkey and the donkey cart of her first

The last days of May are among the longest of the year, and in spite of the ferry-dock lights and the lights of the cars streaming into the belly of the boat, she could see some glow in the western sky and against it the black mound of an island.

We were very tired, we were very merry—We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.

our Minor American Novelist is making his way to a small gold-rush town in the Sierra Nevadas to give a lecture in their Significant Speakers series. For anyone else, it would be a mere three-hour journey, but our Arthur Less has to do things the hard way; he has chosen to take a ferry and a train.

The ferry back to Budapest was full of reveling women in their fifties. Elbows linked, they danced, stomped, sang, and coughed. In the bar, they banged bottles against the counter. The few men in their party were slumped at the tables, heads buried in their arms. Only two were sitting upright, addressing a salami of durable appearance with a pocketknife.

In all memory there is a degree of fallenness; we are all exiles from our own pasts, just as, on looking up from a book, we discover anew our banishment from the bright worlds of imagination and fantasy. A cross-channel ferry, with its overfilled ashtrays and vomiting children, is as good a place as any to reflect on the angel who stands with a flaming sword in front of the gateway to all our yesterdays.

like kings of old, or like a miracle. It was still dark. One foot of the sun steadied itself on a long ripple in the river. The first ferry of the day had just crossed the river.

I would not want to be on a cruise ship. Some ferry crossings I'm not too thrilled about.

He had always rather liked emergencies. Other people's at any rate. They put your own problems into perspective. It was like being on a ferry. You didn't have to think about what you had to do or where you had to go for the next few hours. It was all laid out for you.

How many actors could make fifty dollars a week were all forms of amusement barred by edict? Harpo Marx? He could strum his lyre on a ferry boat and pass the hat.

In my mind, the CalMac ferry is linked with the joy of arrival, the sadness of departure, the loss of loved ones brought home by ferry to rest in island soil. It is friendships made and a working life begun.

One of the previous possessors of the stone was Chuang Tzu. He had a disciple who spent seven years studying universal energy and then demonstrated his wisdom by walking across the surface of a river and back again, and Chuang Tzu broke into tears. 'Oh, my boy!' he sobbed. 'My poor, poor, boy! You spent seven years of your life learning to do that, and all the while old Meng has been running a ferry not two miles from here, and he only charges two copper coins.