Lavender 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
can-i-have-look-at-uranus-too-lavender-jk-rowling
like-lavender-and-things-that-smell
a-scent-lavender-cannot-be-put-into-words-marty-rubin
midnight-is-lavender-morning-is-lime-the-carpenters
forgiveness-is-smell-that-lavender-gives-out-when-you-tread-on-it-mark-twain
she-does-love-lavender-because-its-color-transformation-felicity-huffman
while-there-is-tea-there-is-hope-sweet-lavender-arthur-wing-pinero
womanist-is-to-feminist-as-purple-is-to-lavender
imagine-sunset-lavender-red-as-battered-morals-sarah-gorham
i-put-drop-lavender-essential-oil-on-my-pillow-before-i-go-to-sleep-melissa-joan-hart
gay-people-do-not-fight-for-freedom-to-live-in-lavender-bubble-but-in-more-just-society-urvashi-vaid
add-drop-lavender-to-milk-leave-town-with-orange-pretend-youre-laughing-at-it-bill-bailey
a-rhododendron-bud-lavendertipped-soon-glory-blooms-to-clash-with-cardinals-gladden-hummingbirds-dave-beard
what-woman-however-old-has-not-bridalfavours-raiment-stowed-away-packed-in-lavender-in-inmost-cupboards-her-heart-william-makepeace-thackeray
hot-lavender-mints-savory-marjoram-the-marigold-that-goes-to-bed-wi-sun-with-him-rise-weeping-william-shakespeare
it-was-our-favorite-part-day-this-inbetween-time-it-always-seemed-to-last-longer-than-it-should-magic-lavender-space-unpinned-from-hours-around-paula-mclain
during-londons-great-plague-people-would-tie-bunches-of-lavender-to-their-wrists-to-fight-infection-and-bacteria
sprinkling-drops-lavender-clary-sage-oil-into-bath-is-totally-simple-yet-complex-pleasure
my-love-for-you-is-like-florida-sunset-orange-coral-pink-lavender-it-exists-to-warm-your-heart-through-inevitable-darkness-jarod-kintz
bursts-gold-on-lavender-melting-into-saffron-its-time-day-when-sky-looks-like-it-has-been-spraypainted-by-graffiti-artist-mia-kirshner
before-bed-i-read-book-flip-on-radio-im-not-picky-ill-just-turn-it-on-see-what-comes-up-i-burn-yummy-lavender-scented-candle-carrie-underwood
dear-everything-today-i-witnessed-a-crucifixion-in-pink-lavender-gold-ive-heard-people-say-that-beauty-is-in-details-but-i-dont-think-they-have-ever-pig-destroyer
we-lavender-folk-spray-up-spontaneously-flowering-in-color-we-had-learned-as-identifying-mark-our-culture-when-it-was-subterranean-secret-judy-grahn
even-talking-im-superloud-i-could-never-have-that-kind-meek-little-wispy-whimsical-lavender-lace-voice-it-comes-from-my-body-theres-no-way-i-can-beth-ditto
consider-o-lover-my-throat-white-as-cigarette-paper-the-crushed-lavender-my-knuckles-my-heart-dulled-needle-threaded-through-too-many-patterns-cecilia-llompart
the-air-was-fragrant-with-thousand-trodden-aromatic-herbs-with-fields-lavender-with-brightest-roses-blushing-in-tufts-all-over-meadows-william-c-bryant
if-you-want-to-know-what-london-looked-like-in-1947-with-all-bomb-sites-hue-cry-will-tell-you-and-when-i-shot-the-lavender-hill-mob-four-years-later-it-didnt-look-that-different
yours-is-il-sent-comme-lavande-is-that-french-for-you-stink-it-means-lavender-huh-she-sniffed-at-her-wrist-i-thought-i-smelled-more-like-grape-lynn-viehl
to-make-perfume-take-some-rose-water-wash-your-hands-in-it-then-take-lavender-flower-rub-it-with-your-palms-you-will-achieve-desired-effect-leonardo-da-vinci
consider-o-lover-my-throat-white-as-cigarette-paper-the-crushed-lavender-my-knucklesmy-heart-dulled-needle-threaded-through-too-many-patterns-cecilia-llompart
twilight-was-laying-claim-to-cite-sky-was-deepening-shade-lavender-spangled-with-stars-fleecy-clouds-colour-plums-sharon-kay-penman
the-raindrops-played-across-coast-all-through-night-until-soft-new-day-shrugged-itself-awake-tried-on-amethyst-lavender-for-while-finally-gary-d-schmidt
but-you-you-foolish-girl-you-have-gone-home-to-leaky-castle-across-sea-to-lie-awake-in-linen-smelling-lavender-hear-nightingale-long-for-me-edna-st-vincent-millay
one-trick-i-swear-by-i-pour-little-neroli-lavender-oil-onto-hot-towel-use-it-to-wipe-off-my-makeup-it-opens-up-my-pores-then-my-face-cream-sinks-courteney-cox
and-were-gonna-put-pen-in-box-she-loved-lavender-roses-we-can-put-rose-petal-in-here-tammy-kubo
if-you-had-to-choose-oilit-would-have-to-be-lavender-essential-oil-because-it-is-antibacterial-antiviral-so-its-great-to-have-when-people-around-you-karen-rose
lavender-is-new-pink-ill-never-stop-wearing-pink-but-i-wanted-to-venture-out-nicki-minaj
somewhere-rattlesnake-strike-makes-dance-begin-three-hawks-float-in-light-blue-sky-overhead-crows-caw-sweet-seduction-lavender-fills-my-head-and-she-waltzes-through-my-thoughts-h
colors-scents-evoke-strong-emotions-lavender-both-light-purple-smell-make-me-feel-tranquil-but-another-color-canary-urine-reminds-me-public-bathrooms-all-fond-memories-waiting-fo
you-know-when-you-have-party-as-kid-your-mom-hires-fairy-princess-superhero-to-come-host-party-i-was-fairy-lavender-i-loved-it-it-was-good-training-for-theater
its-scented-your-wedding-invitations-are-scented-its-meant-to-be-lavender-no-dex-its-money-it-smells-money-david-nicholls
once-ruffleskirted-vanity-table-where-i-primped-at-thirteen-opening-drawers-to-private-chaos-eyeshadows-lavender-teal-skyblue-swarms-hair-pins-pony-tail-fasteners-stashes-powders
courage-is-not-walking-into-battle-with-no-fear-you-should-know-this-as-soldier-courage-is-feeling-great-fear-but-walking-forward-anyway-lady-lavender-by-lynna-banning-lynna-bann
when-light-turns-green-you-go-when-light-turns-red-you-stop-but-what-do-you-do-when-light-turns-blue-with-orange-lavender-spots-shel-silverstein
as-far-as-what-i-do-love-i-love-birds-i-love-lavender-michael-moore
Moving on, while he wondered, the dark through which Mr. Lecky's light cut grew more beautiful with scents. Particles of solid matter so minute, gases so subtle, that they filtered through stopping and sealing, hung on the unstirred air. Drawn in with Mr. Lecky's breath came impalpable dews cooked out of disintegrating coal. Distilled, chemically split and reformed, they ended in flawless simulation of the aromas of gums, the scent of woods and the world's flowers. The chemists who made them could do more than that. Loose on the gloom were perfumes of flowers which might possibly have bloomed but never had, and the strong-smelling saps of trees either lost or not yet evolved. Mixed in the mucus of the pituitary membrane, these volatile essences meant more than synthetic chemistry to Mr. Lecky. Their microscopic slime coated the bushed-out ends of the olfactory nerve; their presence was signaled to the anterior of the brain's temporal lobe. At once, thought waited on them, tossing down from the great storehouse of old images, neglected ideas - sandalwood and roses, musk and lavender. Mr. Lecky stood still, wrung by pangs as insistent and unanswerable as hunger. He was prodded by the unrest of things desired, not had; the surfeit of things had, not desired. More than anything he could see, or words, or sounds, these odors made him stupidly aware of the past. Unable to remember it, whence he was, or where he had previously been, all that was sweet, impermanent and gone came back not spoiled by too much truth or exact memory. Volatile as the perfumes, the past stirred him with longing for what was not - the only beloved beauty which you will have to see but which you may not keep. Mr. Lecky's beam of light went through glass top and side of a counter, displayed bottles of colored liquid - straw, amber, topaz - threw shadows behind their diverse shapes. He had no use for perfume. All the distraction, all the sense of loss and implausible sweetness which he felt was in memory of women. Behind the counter, Mr. Lecky, curious, took out bottles, sniffed them, examined their elaborately varied forms - transparent squares, triangles, cones, flattened ovals. Some were opaque, jet or blue, rough with embedded metals in intricate design. This great and needless decoration of the flasks which contained it was one strange way to express the inexpressible. Another way was tried in the names put on the bottles. Here words ran the suggestive or symbolic gamut of idealized passion, or festive night, of desired caresses, or of abstractions of the painful allure yet farther fetched. Not even in the hopeful, miracle-raving fancy of those who used the perfumes could a bottle of liquid have any actual magic. Since the buyers at the counters must be human beings, nine of every ten were beyond this or other help. Women, young, but unlovely and unloved, women, whatever they had been, now at the end of it and ruined by years or thickened to caricature by fat, ought to be the ones called to mind by perfume. But they were not. Mr. Lecky held the bottle in his hand a long while, aware of the tenth woman.

James Gould Cozzens
moving-on-while-he-wondered-dark-through-which-mr-leckys-light-cut-grew-more-beautiful-with-scents-particles-solid-matter-minute-gases-subtle-that-they-filtered-through-stopping-
Finding a taxi, she felt like a child pressing her nose to the window of a candy store as she watched the changing vista pass by while the twilight descended and the capital became bathed in a translucent misty lavender glow. Entering the city from that airport was truly unique. Charles de Gaulle, built nineteen miles north of the bustling metropolis, ensured that the final point of destination was veiled from the eyes of the traveller as they descended. No doubt, the officials scrupulously planned the airport's location to prevent the incessant air traffic and roaring engines from visibly or audibly polluting the ambience of their beloved capital, and apparently, they succeeded. If one flew over during the summer months, the visitor would be visibly presented with beautifully managed quilt-like fields of alternating gold and green appearing as though they were tilled and clipped with the mathematical precision of a slide rule. The countryside was dotted with quaint villages and towns that were obviously under meticulous planning control. When the aircraft began to descend, this prevailing sense of exactitude and order made the visitor long for an aerial view of the capital city and its famous wonders, hoping they could see as many landmarks as they could before they touched ground, as was the usual case with other major international airports, but from this point of entry, one was denied a glimpse of the city below. Green fields, villages, more fields, the ground grew closer and closer, a runway appeared, a slight bump or two was felt as the craft landed, and they were surrounded by the steel and glass buildings of the airport. Slightly disappointed with this mysterious game of hide-and-seek, the voyager must continue on and collect their baggage, consoled by the reflection that they will see the metropolis as they make their way into town. For those travelling by road, the concrete motorway with its blue road signs, the underpasses and the typical traffic-logged hubbub of industrial areas were the first landmarks to greet the eye, without a doubt, it was a disheartening first impression. Then, the real introduction began. Quietly, and almost imperceptibly, the modern confusion of steel and asphalt was effaced little by little as the exquisite timelessness of Parisian heritage architecture was gradually unveiled. Popping up like mushrooms were cream sandstone edifices filigreed with curled, swirling carvings, gently sloping mansard roofs, elegant ironwork lanterns and wood doors that charmed the eye, until finally, the traveller was completely submerged in the glory of the Second Empire ala Baron Haussmann's master plan of city design, the iconic grand mansions, tree-lined boulevards and avenues, the quaint gardens, the majestic churches with their towers and spires, the shops and cafes with their colourful awnings, all crowded and nestled together like jewels encrusted on a gold setting.

E.A. Bucchianeri
finding-taxi-she-felt-like-child-pressing-her-nose-to-window-candy-store-as-she-watched-changing-vista-pass-by-while-twilight-descended-capital-became-bathed-in-translucent-misty
The Loneliness of the Military Historian Confess: it's my profession that alarms you. This is why few people ask me to dinner, though Lord knows I don't go out of my way to be scary. I wear dresses of sensible cut and unalarming shades of beige, I smell of lavender and go to the hairdresser's: no prophetess mane of mine, complete with snakes, will frighten the youngsters. If I roll my eyes and mutter, if I clutch at my heart and scream in horror like a third-rate actress chewing up a mad scene, I do it in private and nobody sees but the bathroom mirror. In general I might agree with you: women should not contemplate war, should not weigh tactics impartially, or evade the word enemy, or view both sides and denounce nothing. Women should march for peace, or hand out white feathers to arouse bravery, spit themselves on bayonets to protect their babies, whose skulls will be split anyway, or, having been raped repeatedly, hang themselves with their own hair. There are the functions that inspire general comfort. That, and the knitting of socks for the troops and a sort of moral cheerleading. Also: mourning the dead. Sons, lovers and so forth. All the killed children. Instead of this, I tell what I hope will pass as truth. A blunt thing, not lovely. The truth is seldom welcome, especially at dinner, though I am good at what I do. My trade is courage and atrocities. I look at them and do not condemn. I write things down the way they happened, as near as can be remembered. I don't ask why, because it is mostly the same. Wars happen because the ones who start them think they can win. In my dreams there is glamour. The Vikings leave their fields each year for a few months of killing and plunder, much as the boys go hunting. In real life they were farmers. The come back loaded with splendour. The Arabs ride against Crusaders with scimitars that could sever silk in the air. A swift cut to the horse's neck and a hunk of armour crashes down like a tower. Fire against metal. A poet might say: romance against banality. When awake, I know better. Despite the propaganda, there are no monsters, or none that could be finally buried. Finish one off, and circumstances and the radio create another. Believe me: whole armies have prayed fervently to God all night and meant it, and been slaughtered anyway. Brutality wins frequently, and large outcomes have turned on the invention of a mechanical device, viz. radar. True, valour sometimes counts for something, as at Thermopylae. Sometimes being right - though ultimate virtue, by agreed tradition, is decided by the winner. Sometimes men throw themselves on grenades and burst like paper bags of guts to save their comrades. I can admire that. But rats and cholera have won many wars. Those, and potatoes, or the absence of them. It's no use pinning all those medals across the chests of the dead. Impressive, but I know too much. Grand exploits merely depress me. In the interests of research I have walked on many battlefields that once were liquid with pulped men's bodies and spangled with exploded shells and splayed bone. All of them have been green again by the time I got there. Each has inspired a few good quotes in its day. Sad marble angels brood like hens over the grassy nests where nothing hatches. (The angels could just as well be described as vulgar or pitiless, depending on camera angle.) The word glory figures a lot on gateways. Of course I pick a flower or two from each, and press it in the hotel Bible for a souvenir. I'm just as human as you. But it's no use asking me for a final statement. As I say, I deal in tactics. Also statistics: for every year of peace there have been four hundred years of war.

Margaret Atwood
the-loneliness-military-historian-confess-its-my-profession-that-alarms-you-this-is-why-few-people-ask-me-to-dinner-though-lord-knows-i-dont-go-out-my-way-to-be-scary-i-wear-dres
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