Quotes About Street

Papa grinned and pointed at the girl. "Book, sandpaper, pencil," he ordered her, "and accordion!" once she was already gone. Soon, they were on Himmel Street, carrying the words, the music, the washing.

A woman of wire had laid herself down, her scream traveling the street, till it fell sideways like a rolling coin starved of momentum.

From a Himmel Street window, he wrote, the star set fire to my eyes.

When I opened the door to her I felt like a child who believes itself lost on a swarming street and suddenly sees that all-solving outline, that indispensable displacement of air.

He was an artist when he saw society: it never crossed his mind that society had to be like this, had any right, had any business being like this. A car in the street. Why? Why cars? This is what an artist has to be: harassed to the point of insanity or stupefaction by first principles.

One night--it was on the twentieth of March, 1888--I was returning from a journey to a patient (for I had now returned to civil practice), when my way led me through Baker Street.

We were fairly accustomed to receive weird telegrams at Baker Street

the town showed a dead level of mean ugliness and squalor. The broad street was churned up by the traffic into a horrible rutted paste of muddy snow. The sidewalks were narrow and uneven. The numerous gas-lamps served only to show more clearly a long line of wooden houses, each with its veranda facing the street, unkempt and dirty.

society with his whole Bohemian soul, remained in our lodgings in Baker Street, buried among his old books, and alternating from

The opinion of a clever man who has had no experience is really of less value than that of the man in the street who has actually been there.

Is this how you act toward your honored guest? You must take him out onto the street and walk him around a bit to wake him up. The cold will do him good. He's lying in the snow. Isn't that cold enough?

It's a battle of those who know how to think against those who know how to hate. A battle of lovers against haters. It's an unequal battle, because the love is on the street and vulnerable. The hate is on the street, too, but it is armed to the teeth, and protected by all the machinery of the state.

The post-massacre protocol was quick and efficient- perfected by practice. Within an hour the dead bodies had been removed to the morgue in the Police Control Room, and the wounded to hospital. The street was hosed down, the blood directed into the open drains. Shops reopened. Normalcy was declared. (Normalcy was always a declaration.)

The summer day had turned hot, and I was sweating by the time I reached Russel Street and turned again to Covent Garden.

Before going back to college, i knew i didn't want to be an intellectual, spending my life in books and libraries without knowing what the hell is going on in the streets. Theory without practice is just as incomplete as practice without theory. The two have to go together.

You love your work. God help you, you love it! And thats the curse. That's the brand on your forehead for all of them to see. You love it and they know it, and they know they have you. Do you ever look at the people in the street? Aren't you afraid of them? I am. They move past you and they wear hats and they carry bundles. But that's not the substance of them. The substance of them is hatred for any man who loves his work. That's the only kind they fear. I don't know why

Mandelstam wrote of the Jewish tutor who first introduced him to the concept of Jewish pride and whom he failed to believe, as he could see the tutor put that pride away as soon as he set foot again in the street.

The story of their fellowship ends here, on this make-believe street and beneath this artificial sun; the rest of the tale will be short and brutal compared to all that's gone before. Because when katet breaks, the end always comes quickly. Say sorry.

You see someone on the street wearing an outfit and then it's on the cover of a magazine. I love. But, you know, I'm Australian, so I'm not too flashy or glitzy.

The street and me is a love story. 1971 is a great date because, finally, fashion took to the street.

I always played soccer in Adidas, but I always wore Nikes. I love street sportswear.

And as she walks, in a city of strangers, her nostrils filled with the scent of street food, her ears filled with an unfamiliar language, she feels something unexpected wash through her. She feels connected, alive.

Apart from an exotic taste in clothes, and the fact that I'm a bit short, there's not a lot separating me from anyone you might pass in the street. You probably wouldn't look at me twice. An ordinary girl, leading an ordinary life. It actually suited me fine.

Down the street she can hear the acoustics of early evening in the city, the clatter of pans in distant kitchens, televisions firing up, a car door slamming, a dog barking at some unseen outrage.