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Fog Quotes

Quotes tagged as "fog" Showing 1-30 of 130
Charles Dickens
“LONDON. Michaelmas Term lately over, and the Lord Chancellor sitting in Lincoln’s Inn Hall. Implacable November weather. As much mud in the streets as if the waters had but newly retired from the face of the earth, and it would not be wonderful to meet a Megalosaurus, forty feet long or so, waddling like an elephantine lizard up Holborn Hill. Smoke lowering down from chimney-pots, making a soft black drizzle, with flakes of soot in it as big as full-grown snow-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 another’s umbrellas in a general infection of ill-temper, 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 ever broke), adding new deposits to the crust 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 great 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 pipe 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 as the sun may, from the spongey fields, be seen to loom by husbandman and ploughboy. Most of the shops lighted two hours before their time — as the gas seems to know, for it has a haggard and unwilling look.

The raw afternoon is rawest, and the dense fog is densest, and the muddy streets are muddiest near that leaden-headed old obstruction, appropriate ornament for the threshold of a leaden-headed old corporation, Temple Bar. And hard by Temple Bar, in Lincoln’s Inn Hall, at the very heart of the fog, sits the Lord High Chancellor in his High Court of Chancery.”
Charles Dickens, Bleak House

Ray Bradbury
“One day many years ago a man walked along and stood in the sound of the ocean on a cold sunless shore and said, "We need a voice to call across the water, to warn ships; I'll make one. I'll make a voice like all of time and all of the fog that ever was; I'll make a voice that is like an empty bed beside you all night long, and like an empty house when you open the door, and like trees in autumn with no leaves. A sound like the birds flying south, crying, and a sound like November wind and the sea on the hard, cold shore. I'll make a sound that's so alone that no one can miss it, that whoever hears it will weep in their souls, and hearths will seem warmer, and being inside will seem better to all who hear it in the distant towns. I'll make me a sound and an apparatus and they'll call it a Fog Horn and whoever hears it will know the sadness of eternity and the briefness of life."

The Fog Horn blew.”
Ray Bradbury, The Fog Horn

Raymond Chandler
“Under the thinning fog the surf curled and creamed, almost without sound, like a thought trying to form inself on the edge of consciousness.”
Raymond Chandler, The Big Sleep

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

Vladimir Nabokov
“Children of her type contrive the purest philosophies. Ada had worked out her own little system. Hardly a week had elapsed since Van’s arrival when he was found worthy of being initiated in her web of wisdom. An individual’s life consisted of certain classified things: "real things" which were unfrequent and priceless, simply "things" which formed the routine stuff of life; and "ghost things," also called "fogs," such as 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 series, one experienced supreme rapture; it almost never happened, though. In some circumstances, in a certain light, a neutral "thing" might look or even actually become "real" or else, conversely, it might coagulate into a fetid "fog." When the joy and the joyless happened to be intermixed, simultaneously or along the ramp of duration, one was confronted with "ruined towers" and "broken bridges.”
Vladimir Nabokov, Ada, or Ardor: A Family Chronicle

Rudyard Kipling
“A thin grey fog hung over the city, and the streets were very cold; for summer was in England.”
Rudyard Kipling, The Light That Failed [Illustrated]

Erin Bow
“At night the fog was thick and full of light, and sometimes voices.”
Erin Bow, Plain Kate

Vera Nazarian
“Desire is like fog on a bathroom mirror -- its presence incites you to wipe the mirror, and see yourself clearly again.”
Vera Nazarian, The Perpetual Calendar of Inspiration

Umberto Eco
“I returned to the courtyard and saw that the sun had grown weaker. Beautiful and clear as it had been, the morning (as the day approached the completion of its first half) was becoming damp and misty. Heavy clouds moved from the north and were invading the top of the mountain, covering it with a light brume. It seemed to be fog, and perhaps fog was also rising from the ground, but at that altitude it was difficult 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

Denis Mackail
“Caught in the doldrums of August we may have regretted the departing summer, having sighed over the vanished strawberries and all that they signified. Now, however, we look forward almost eagerly to winter's approach. We forget the fogs, the slush, the sore throats an the price of coal, we think only of long evenings by lamplight, of the books which we are really going to read this time, of the bright shop windows and the keen edge of the early frosts.”
Denis Mackail, Greenery Street

Leslie Connor
“In the morning I woke like a sloth in the fog.”
Leslie Connor, Waiting for Normal

Erin Bow
“The night was white-blind with fog, and Kate staggered over every stone and stumbled in every puddle, but she pushed on as fast as she could.”
Erin Bow, Plain Kate

Mehmet Murat ildan
“Why does the fog behave like this, what's wrong with this mysterious creature? Why does he want to make everything invisible? Maybe he's trying to tell us something: Hey you humans, you think you're strong but you can disappear in seconds!”
Mehmet Murat ildan

“You do not respond to your critic’s statements of wrongdoing with denial, defensiveness, or countermanipulation with criticisms of your own. Instead, you break the manipulative cycle by actively prompting further criticism about yourself or by prompting more information about statements of “wrongdoing” from the critical person in an unemotional, low-key manner.”
Manuel J. Smith, When I Say No, I Feel Guilty: How to Cope - Using the Skills of Systematic Assertive Therapy

Alistair Cross
“Outside, shadows drew their dark capes around the trees as 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

Ruth Ann Oskolkoff
“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,
By the dusky moorland and blanket bog;

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

The meadow hums in ancient analog,
Oxeye daisies keep their secretive pacts
By 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

“Fog borne of fatigue, fog of early morning,
of restless middle-years sleeplessness, fog of cat
hair 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 do.”
Michael Kleber-Diggs, Worldly Things

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

Sneha Subramanian Kanta
“When memory is a veil of exposure through which the fullness of tides is visible, I can still sometimes smell 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 like a distant 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

Sneha Subramanian Kanta
“When memory is a veil of exposure through which the fullness of tides is visible, I can still sometimes smell the radiance of flowers. I have argued with friends that Mumbai does have seasons—if one bothers to watch closely. Now I trace the months on a calendar like a distant 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

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

“FOGGING is a very effective skill for desensitizing you to criticism and actually reducing the frequency of criticism from others. It rapidly sets up a psychological distance, boundary lines between you and the person you FOG.”
Manuel J. Smith, When I Say No, I Feel Guilty: How to Cope - Using the Skills of Systematic Assertive Therapy

Debasish Mridha
“Stop complaining and start loving; every complaint will vanish like fog in the morning sunlight.”
Debasish Mridha

“The fog spreaded the vibe the conscious mind opened its heart out not before it had imagined the souls had already travelled a mile.”
Tarun Singh Thakur

Jennifer Egan
“He tipped back his head to look at the sky, its torn beauty rinsed and salved by fog, and imagined he was seeing their opioid dreams rising into heaven.”
Jennifer Egan, The Candy House

Shunryu Suzuki
“When you get wet in a fog it is very difficult to dry yourself.”
Shunryu Suzuki, Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind: Informal Talks on Zen Meditation and Practice

K-Ming Chang
“The fog smelled like fucking, like us, like our sweat fermented into sweet pudding”
K-Ming Chang, Bestiary

Chiara Kilian
“Then came the first hint of fog, all silver and gold, and then more and more, turning grey and blue. Fog like that was beautiful, and it was dangerous, for you could get lost in it easily.”
Chiara Kilian, The First Tale of the Tinners' Rabbits

T. Kingfisher
“Fog lined the edges of the wood, hanging in low swirls over the meadow. The crows cawed together like a disjointed heartbeat. Nothing else moved.”
T. Kingfisher, Nettle & Bone

T. Kingfisher
“It galloped out of the fog, an articulated ghost, bouncing on its forelegs. Briefly it rose up and swiped at her face with its nonexistent tongue, then dropped back down again.”
T. Kingfisher, Nettle & Bone

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