Night Fog Scary Coming Man Funny Gif

,

• Home
• My Books

Discover & Share Quotes with Friends

Fog Quotes

Quotes tagged every bit "fog" Showing 1-30 of 127

"LONDON. Michaelmas Term lately over, and the Lord Chancellor sitting in Lincoln's Inn Hall. Implacable November weather condition. As much mud in the streets as if the waters had but newly retired from the face of the earth, and it would not exist wonderful to meet a Megalosaurus, 40 feet long or so, waddling similar an elephantine lizard up Holborn Hill. Smoke lowering down from chimney-pots, making a soft black drizzle, with flakes of soot in information technology as big every bit total-grown snowfall-flakes — gone into mourning, one might imagine, for the death of the sun. Dogs, undistinguishable in mire. Horses, scarcely better; splashed to their very blinkers. Foot passengers, jostling one some other's umbrellas in a general infection of sick-atmosphere, and losing their foot-hold at street-corners, where tens of thousands of other foot passengers have been slipping and sliding since the day broke (if the day e'er broke), calculation new deposits to the chaff upon crust of mud, sticking at those points tenaciously to the pavement, and accumulating at compound interest.

Fog everywhere. Fog up the river, where it flows among green aits and meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls defiled among the tiers of shipping and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city. Fog on the Essex marshes, fog on the Kentish heights. Fog creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs; fog lying out on the yards, and hovering in the rigging of bully ships; fog drooping on the gunwales of barges and small boats. Fog in the eyes and throats of ancient Greenwich pensioners, wheezing by the firesides of their wards; fog in the stem and bowl of the afternoon piping of the wrathful skipper, down in his close cabin; fog cruelly pinching the toes and fingers of his shivering little 'prentice boy on deck. Chance people on the bridges peeping over the parapets into a nether sky of fog, with fog all round them, as if they were up in a balloon, and hanging in the misty clouds.

Gas looming through the fog in divers places in the streets, much equally the sunday may, from the spongey fields, be seen to loom by husbandman and ploughboy. Well-nigh of the shops lighted two hours earlier their time — as the gas seems to know, for it has a haggard and unwilling expect.

The raw afternoon is rawest, and the dense fog is densest, and the muddy streets are muddiest nigh that leaden-headed one-time obstruction, appropriate ornamentation for the threshold of a leaden-headed old corporation, Temple Bar. And hard past Temple Bar, in Lincoln'southward Inn Hall, at the very heart of the fog, sits the Lord Loftier Chancellor in his Loftier Court of Chancery."
― Charles Dickens, Bleak House

"One solar day many years ago a homo walked along and stood in the sound of the sea on a cold sunless shore and said, "We demand a phonation to call across the water, to warn ships; I'll brand one. I'll make a voice similar all of fourth dimension and all of the fog that e'er was; I'll make a vocalisation that is like an empty bed abreast you all night long, and like an empty house when yous open the door, and like trees in autumn with no leaves. A sound like the birds flight southward, crying, and a sound like November air current and the sea on the hard, common cold shore. I'll make a sound that's then alone that no i can miss it, that whoever hears it will weep in their souls, and hearths will seem warmer, and existence inside will seem better to all who hear information technology in the distant towns. I'll brand me a sound and an apparatus and they'll call it a Fog Horn and whoever hears information technology will know the sadness of eternity and the briefness of life."

The Fog Horn blew."
― Ray Bradbury, The Fog Horn

"Under the thinning fog the surf curled and creamed, about without audio, like a thought trying to grade inself on the edge of consciousness."
― Raymond Chandler, The Large Sleep

"moonlight disappears down the hills
mountains vanish into fog
and i vanish into poetry."
― Sanober Khan, A Thousand Flamingos

"Children of her type contrive the purest philosophies. Ada had worked out her own little system. Hardly a calendar week had elapsed since Van'south arrival when he was constitute worthy of being initiated in her web of wisdom. An individual'due south life consisted of certain classified things: "real things" which were unfrequent and priceless, but "things" which formed the routine stuff of life; and "ghost things," also chosen "fogs," such equally fever, toothache, dreadful disappointments, and death. Three or more things occurring at the same time formed a "tower," or, if they came in immediate succession, they made a "bridge." "Real towers" and "real bridges" were the joys of life, and when the towers came in a serial, one experienced supreme rapture; it most never happened, though. In some circumstances, in a certain low-cal, a neutral "thing" might look or fifty-fifty actually become "real" or else, conversely, information technology might coalesce into a fetid "fog." When the joy and the joyless happened to be intermixed, simultaneously or forth the ramp of duration, 1 was confronted with "ruined towers" and "broken bridges."
― Vladimir Nabokov, Ada, or Ardor: A Family unit Chronicle

"At dark the fog was thick and full of light, and sometimes voices."
― Erin Bow, Plainly Kate

"I returned to the courtyard and saw that the sun had grown weaker. Beautiful and articulate as it had been, the forenoon (as the mean solar day approached the completion of its first half) was becoming damp and misty. Heavy clouds moved from the northward and were invading the height of the mountain, roofing it with a low-cal haze. Information technology seemed to be fog, and perhaps fog was also rising from the ground, but at that altitude it was hard to distinguish the mists that rose from below and those that come down from above. It was becoming hard to discern the bulk of the more distant buildings."
― Umberto Eco, The Name of the Rose

"Caught in the doldrums of August we may take regretted the parting summer, having sighed over the vanished strawberries and all that they signified. Now, nonetheless, we look forward almost eagerly to winter'southward approach. We forget the fogs, the slush, the sore throats an the price of coal, we think merely of long evenings by lamplight, of the books which we are really going to read this fourth dimension, of the brilliant shop windows and the keen edge of the early on frosts."
― Denis Mackail, Greenery Street

"The night was white-blind with fog, and Kate staggered over every rock and stumbled in every puddle, but she pushed on every bit fast every bit she could."
― Erin Bow, Plain Kate

"You do non respond to your critic's statements of wrongdoing with denial, defensiveness, or countermanipulation with criticisms of your own. Instead, you lot suspension the manipulative cycle by actively prompting further criticism about yourself or by prompting more data about statements of "wrongdoing" from the disquisitional person in an unemotional, low-key mode."
― Manuel J. Smith, When I Say No, I Feel Guilty: How to Cope - Using the Skills of Systematic Assertive Therapy

"Outside, shadows drew their dark capes around the copse equally masses of lake and sea mist rose and floated closer, like ghosts come to ply the tender flesh of the living."
― Alistair Cross, The Black Wasp

"The student asked: Master, what should I do if I stay in the fog and lose my path? The master replied: Only sit downwards and wait, for it is not y'all who lost your path but the fog! When the fog finds its style and leaves you, you will find your manner too!"
― Mehmet Murat ildan

"الضباب ظلام أبيض . والظلام ضباب أسود"
― Mikhail Naimy, كرم على درب

"Set thee canvass to faintest carol sung;
every bit cascading waves echo risen yester-'south dawn.
Forging forth in fog's tomorrows hung;
through foretime shadow bearing sorrow'due south spawn.
Yet seen, flowing hither, 'til sprung;
every bit far-flung passages unto its electric current drawn.

Bandage adrift amidst the whisp'band bounding main;
ere oar's wake greets break of twenty-four hour period's incline.
Neither isle to encounter nor fabulous tree;
or sparrow's flight, o'er sabulous shoreline.
Hast not shelter or promis'd joy alee;
ne'er yore star lights meet final ray's shine.

Lofty elysian orbs hearken eons spent;
dead-reckon thy course ‒ past each glint ameliorate.
Faded blooms first wither to reorient;
blighted plumes doom poesy whither 'twas penned.
Oft gone awry 'fore new insights lent;
through pallid nighttime 'tis writ journey's end.

A mist veiled rose rouses vivid prose;
all rhymes return backward to treasure therein.
Crows alit in rows, hidden suns arose;
'tis sublimely writ once upon a tale's begin.
Whist muse's woes fill up night's repose;
wherein the voyager's destiny abides in time."
― Monte Souder (Rat Luck: Vol I)

"Fog borne of fatigue, fog of early morning,
of restless eye-years sleeplessness, fog of true cat
pilus in my eye, of dog, dogs, fog of darkness, fog

of dreary days under a pseudo-autocracy, funk
fog of high crimes and misdemeanors, fog of my daily
compulsion toward work I do not want to practice."
― Michael Kleber-Diggs, Worldly Things

"All the windows were fogged over now. Neither Walt nor Lem tried to clear the misted glass. Unable to encounter out of the car, confined to its humid and claustrophobic interior, they seemed to be cutting off from the real world, adrift in time and space, a status that was oddly conducive to the consid eration of the wondrous and outrageous acts of creation that genetic engineering made possible."
― Dean Koontz, Watchers

"When retentiveness is a veil of exposure through which the fullness of tides is visible, I can still sometimes scent the radiance of flowers. I argued with friends that Mumbai does have seasons—if one bothers to watch closely. Now I trace the months on a calendar similar a afar telephone call, the sound of a train whistle or fog that engulfs before the onset of rain to participate in a collective mourning."
― Sneha Subramanian Kanta

"When memory is a veil of exposure through which the fullness of tides is visible, I can still sometimes aroma the radiance of flowers. I have argued with friends that Mumbai does take seasons—if one bothers to sentry closely. At present I trace the months on a calendar similar a afar telephone call, the sound of a railroad train whistle or fog that engulfs before the onset of rain to participate in a collective mourning."
― Sneha Subramanian Kanta

"I recited segments of Rilke's verses
as psalm interludes for a woman
without a map, welcomed by blurry
mornings with fogged windowpanes."
― Sneha Subramanian Kanta

"Why does the fog bear like this, what's wrong with this mysterious beast? Why does he want to make everything invisible? Maybe he's trying to tell united states something: Hey you lot humans, you lot think you're potent but you can disappear in seconds!"
― Mehmet Murat ildan

"Finish complaining and start loving; every complaint volition vanish similar fog in the morning sunlight."
― Debasish Mridha

"The fog spreaded the vibe the witting mind opened its center out not before it had imagined the souls had already travelled a mile."
― Tarun Singh Thakur

"I lay on the grasses in rolling fog,
In yellow hayrattle and fairy flax,
By the dusky moorland and blanket bog;

The snipe chirps out her plaintive monologue,
A skylark warbles while diving her tracks,
I lay on the grasses in rolling fog;

Sky continues his subtle dialogue,
The sun recites hymns to the zodiacs,
Past the dusky moorland and blanket bog;

The peaceful clouds curl past in epilogue
Casting shadows of forgotten syntax,
I lay on the grasses in rolling fog;

The meadow hums in ancient analog,
Oxeye daisies proceed their secretive pacts
Past the dusky moorland and blanket bog;

I need no other church or synagogue
Within my particular parallax,
I lay on the grasses in rolling fog
By the dusky moorland and blanket bog."
― Ruth Ann Oskolkoff, The Bones of the Poor

"He tipped back his head to look at the heaven, its torn dazzler rinsed and salved by fog, and imagined he was seeing their opioid dreams ascension into sky."
― Jennifer Egan, The Candy Firm

"The fog smelled similar fucking, similar usa, like our sweat fermented into sweet pudding"
― K-Ming Chang, Bestiary

Welcome back. Just a moment while we sign you in to your Goodreads account.

buchananspreart1970.blogspot.com

Source: https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/tag/fog

Share this post