Chimneys Quotes

Authors: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
Categories: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
so-many-trees-few-chimneys-jarod-kintz
soldiers-in-peace-are-like-chimneys-in-summer-william-cecil
it-is-easier-to-build-two-chimneys-than-to-keep-one-in-fuel-benjamin-franklin
souldiers-in-peace-are-like-chimneys-in-summer-george-herbert
tis-easier-to-build-two-chimneys-then-to-maintaine-one-george-herbert
their-houses-are-all-built-in-shape-tents-with-high-chimneys-christopher-columbus
let-now-chimneys-blaze-and-cups-oerflow-with-wine-let-welltuned-words-amaze-with-harmony-divine-thomas-campion
gain-may-be-temporary-uncertain-but-ever-while-you-live-expense-is-constant-certain-it-is-easier-to-build-two-chimneys-than-to-keep-one-in-fuel-benjamin-franklin
you-have-these-hot-towers-tropical-storm-clouds-acting-like-chimneys-to-carry-heat-to-upper-atmosphere-peter-may
the-things-i-believed-in-dont-exist-any-more-its-foolish-to-pretend-that-they-do-western-civilization-finally-went-up-in-smoke-in-chimneys-at-dachau-but-i-was-too-infatuated-to-s
not-living-thing-was-to-be-seen-cottages-that-sat-huddled-close-to-ground-remained-fast-shut-smoke-from-chimneys-alone-still-gave-sign-life
let-now-chimneys-blaze-and-cups-oerflow-with-wine-the-summer-hath-his-joys-and-winter-his-delights-though-love-all-his-pleasures-are-but-toys-they-thomas-campion
theres-something-about-these-obscure-vignettes-former-lives-thats-powerful-our-woods-are-full-old-cellar-holes-tumbleddown-chimneys-ancient-scraggly-lilacs-absurdly-tall-still-st
at-witching-hour-city-was-totally-silent-only-wind-portent-blew-through-gathered-council-whispering-brick-chimneys-on-rooftops-delivering-hand-that-would-write-upon-wall-wyatt-mi
im-smokin-in-em-its-like-chimneys-i-aint-friendly-fuck-your-fendy-im-swingin-for-your-diet-kidney-pimples-are-simple-to-pop-i-want-temples-op-then-naughty-by-nature
the-place-worst-barbarism-is-that-modern-forest-that-makes-use-us-this-forest-chimneys-bayonets-machines-weapons-strange-inanimate-beasts-that-feed-on-human-flesh-amadeo-bordiga
mark-spirit-invention-everywhere-thy-rapid-patents-thy-continual-workshops-foundries-risen-rising-see-from-their-chimneys-how-tall-flamefires-stream-walt-whitman
when-my-mother-died-i-was-young-and-my-father-sold-me-while-yet-my-tongue-could-scarcely-cry-weep-weep-weep-weep-so-your-chimneys-i-sweep-in-soot-i-william-blake
The train bore me away, through the monstrous scenery of slag-heaps, chimneys, piled scrap-iron, foul canals, paths of cindery mud criss-crossed by the prints of clogs. This was March, but the weather had been horribly cold and everywhere there were mounds of blackened snow. As we moved slowly through the outskirts of the town we passed row after row of little grey slum houses running at right angles to the embankment. At the back of one of the houses a young woman was kneeling on the stones, poking a stick up the leaden waste-pipe which ran from the sink inside and which I suppose was blocked. I had time to see everything about her-her sacking apron, her clumsy clogs, her arms reddened by the cold. She looked up as the train passed, and I was almost near enough to catch her eye. She had a round pale face, the usual exhausted face of the slum girl who is twenty-five and looks forty, thanks to miscarriages and drudgery; and it wore, for the second in which I saw it, the most desolate, hopeless expression I have ever-seen. It struck me then that we are mistaken when we say that 'It isn't the same for them as it would be for us, ' and that people bred in the slums can imagine nothing but the slums. For what I saw in her face was not the ignorant suffering of an animal. She knew well enough what was happening to her-understood as well as I did how dreadful a destiny it was to be kneeling there in the bitter cold, on the slimy stones of a slum backyard, poking a stick up a foul drain-pipe.

George Orwell
the-train-bore-me-away-through-monstrous-scenery-slagheaps-chimneys-piled-scrapiron-foul-canals-paths-cindery-mud-crisscrossed-by-prints-clogs-this-was-march-but-weather-had-been
It had all begun on the elevated. There was a particular little sea of roots he had grown into the habit of glancing at just as the packed car carrying him homeward lurched around a turn. A dingy, melancholy little world of tar paper, tarred gravel, and smoky brick. Rusty tin chimneys with odd conical hats suggested abandoned listening posts. There was a washed-out advertisement of some ancient patent medicine on the nearest wall. Superficially it was like ten thousand other drab city roofs. But he always saw it around dusk, either in the normal, smoky half-light, or tinged with red by the flat rays of a dirty sunset, or covered by ghostly windblown white sheets of rain-splash, or patched with blackish snow; and it seemed unusually bleak and suggestive, almost beautifully ugly, though in no sense picturesque; dreary but meaningful. Unconsciously it came to symbolize for Catesby Wran certain disagreeable aspects of the frustrated, frightened century in which he lived, the jangled century of hate and heavy industry and Fascist wars. The quick, daily glance into the half darkness became an integral part of his life. Oddly, he never saw it in the morning, for it was then his habit to sit on the other side of the car, his head buried in the paper. One evening toward winter he noticed what seemed to be a shapeless black sack lying on the third roof from the tracks. He did not think about it. It merely registered as an addition to the well-known scene and his memory stored away the impression for further reference. Next evening, however, he decided he had been mistaken in one detail. The object was a roof nearer than he had thought. Its color and texture, and the grimy stains around it, suggested that it was filled with coal dust, which was hardly reasonable. Then, too, the following evening it seemed to have been blown against a rusty ventilator by the wind, which could hardly have happened if it were at all heavy. ("Smoke Ghost")

Fritz Leiber
it-had-all-begun-on-elevated-there-was-particular-little-sea-roots-he-had-grown-into-habit-glancing-at-just-as-packed-car-carrying-him-homeward-lurched-around-turn-a-dingy-melanc
People walk the paths of the gardens below, and the wind sings anthems in the hedges, and the big old cedars at the entrance to the maze creak. Marie-Laure imagines the electromagnetic waves traveling into and out of Michel's machine, bending around them, just as Etienne used to describe, except now a thousand times more crisscross the air than when he lived - maybe a million times more. Torrents of text conversations, tides of cell conversations, of televisions programs, of e-mails, vast networks of fiber and wire interlaced above and beneath the city, passing through buildings, arcing between transmitters in Metro tunnels, between antennas atop buildings, from lampposts with cellular transmitters in them, commercials for Carrefour and Evian and prebaked toaster pastries flashing into space and back to earth again, I am going to be late and Maybe we should get reservations? and Pick up avocados and What did he say? and ten thousand I miss yous, fifty thousand I love yous, hate mail and appointment reminders and market updates, jewelry ads, coffee ads, furniture ads flying invisibly over the warrens of Paris, over the battlefields and tombs, over the Ardennes, over the Rhine, over Belgium and Denmark, over the scarred and ever-shifting landscape we call nations. And is it so hard to believe that souls might also travel those paths? That her father and Etienne and Madame Manec and the German boy named Werner Pfennig might harry the sky in flocks, like egrets, like terns, like starlings? That great shuttles of souls might fly about, faded but audible if you listen closely enough? They flow above the chimneys, ride the sidewalks, slip through your jacket and shirt and breastbone and lungs, and pass out through the other side, the air a library and the record of every life lived, every sentence spoken, every word transmitted still reverberating within it. Every hour, she thinks, someone for whom the war was memory falls out of the world. We rise again in the grass. In the flowers. In songs.

Anthony Doerr
people-walk-paths-gardens-below-wind-sings-anthems-in-hedges-big-old-cedars-at-entrance-to-maze-creak-marielaure-imagines-electromagnetic-waves-traveling-into-out-michels-machine
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