Rooftops 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
there-are-no-signs-life-no-rooftops-no-nothing-rosette-lerias
im-not-type-wholl-yell-about-my-achievements-from-rooftops-aishwarya-rai-bachchan
we-must-shout-out-from-rooftops-that-minneapolis-is-best-place-on-earth
when-you-are-pulling-people-out-water-off-rooftops-there-are-no-republicans-no-democrats
seeing-new-play-in-first-time-production-is-exciting-when-its-good-you-want-to-shout-from-rooftops
i-think-it-is-important-not-to-scream-from-rooftops-to-make-yourself-heard-i-want-my-work-to-do-talking-for-me
come-sit-next-to-me-tell-me-what-you-saw-six-blackbirds-flying-north-icicles-dropping-from-rooftops-my-brightest-diamond
popular-culture-has-made-it-okay-to-yell-i-want-man-from-rooftops-why-are-we-still-embarrassed-to-say-i-want-best-friend-rachel-bertsche
in-middle-east-in-summertime-to-keep-cool-lot-people-sleep-on-rooftops
in-last-analysis-artist-may-shout-from-all-rooftops-that-he-is-genius-he-will-have-to-wait-for-verdict-posterity-marcel-duchamp
to-romp-along-connected-rooftops-fire-escapes-chicagos-second-city-garages-was-my-young-lifes-passion-lynn-margulis
winter-caps-rooftops-and-shrouds-earth-in-silence-skadi-howls-mourns-and-revels-in-whiteness-brown-bird
our-days-were-numbered-by-nights-on-too-many-rooftops-they-said-were-wasting-our-lives-oh-at-least-we-know-that-if-we-died-we-lived-with-passion-they-cartel
the-mist-after-rain-uninterrupted-rainfall-on-rooftops-pitterpatter-intellect-the-thoughts-i-leave-behind-like-footsteps-chris-campanioni
to-romp-along-connected-rooftops-fire-escapes-chicagos-second-city-garages-was-my-young-lifes-passion
i-knew-everything-in-forest-i-had-secret-home-tree-where-i-pretty-much-lived-i-also-liked-rooftops-streetlamps-my-parents-would-get-calls-saying-hes-out-there-again
on-cloudless-night-inky-dark-with-only-rind-moon-above-golem-jinni-went-walking-together-along-prince-street-rooftops-helene-wecker
i-was-brought-up-to-do-my-duty-not-to-be-vain-not-to-shout-from-rooftops-about-my-virtues-to-be-modest-well-behaved-im-totally-wrong-for-show-business
he-turned-around-to-see-bass-drum-popping-horn-sections-pointing-their-instruments-to-balconies-sending-glorious-notes-to-rooftops-hunter-murphy
there-were-days-when-no-kid-came-out-his-house-without-looking-around-the-week-after-halloween-had-quality-both-hungover-ominous-light-pitched-sky-smashed-against-rooftops-jonath
all-sparrows-on-rooftops-are-crying-about-fact-that-most-imperialist-nation-that-is-supporting-colonial-regime-in-colonies-is-united-states-america
gotham-city-clean-shafts-concrete-snowy-rooftops-the-work-men-who-died-generations-ago-from-here-it-looks-like-achievement-from-here-you-cant-see-frank-miller
sundown-had-bloodied-horizon-over-uneven-rooftops-south-boston-birds-were-perched-on-every-roof-seemed-to-be-watching-girl-walking-slowly-below-james-patterson
mine-was-twilight-morning-mine-was-world-rooftops-love-songs-roman-payne
the-stupidity-stupid-man-is-mercifully-intimate-reticient-while-stupidity-intellectual-is-cried-from-rooftops-peter-ustinov
religious-faith-not-only-lacks-evidence-its-independence-from-evidence-is-its-pride-joy-shouted-from-rooftops-richard-dawkins
i-came-out-because-i-fell-in-love-it-wasnt-terrible-horrible-damn-thing-i-was-in-love-with-somebody-i-wanted-to-scream-it-from-rooftops
spininn-in-circle-i-never-wanna-stop-dreamin-is-sweet-girl-and-never-wake-me-up-im-high-above-rooftops-trippin-on-stars-showered-in-moon-glass-the-4-pm
i-sailed-on-cold-air-currents-above-rooftops-paris-i-could-see-river-louvre-museum-gardens-palaces-and-mouseyum-hang-on-carter-i-thought-not-hunting-mice-rick-riordan
i-swear-guys-in-groups-are-capable-stupidest-things-like-war-kellan-says-heaping-napkins-ketchup-packets-onto-her-tray-and-jumping-off-rooftops-and-jay-asher
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
parks-plazas-gardens-rooftops-are-cultureproducing-places-not-merely-place-for-retreat-sidewalks-bridges-become-ends-in-themselves-instead-just-means-getting-from-one-place-to-an
its-gonna-be-skylines-and-rooftops-yeah-yeah
when-film-is-successful-you-dont-need-to-shout-about-it-from-rooftops-i-dont-believe-in-going-into-overdrive-theres-no-desperation-to-be-acknowledged-as-reason-for-films-success
it-was-joy-joy-happy-joy-happy-happy-joy-a-big-fat-smiley-sun-rose-above-rooftops-beamed-down-its-blessings-onto-borough-known-as-brentford-robert-rankin
for-myself-for-long-time-maybe-i-felt-inauthentic-something-i-felt-like-my-voice-wasnt-worth-hearing-i-think-everyones-voice-is-worth-hearing-so-if-youve-got-something-to-say-say
In those days, long before, a view over the rooftops of Paris was an unaffordable luxury. The apartment he had shared with a mousy young writer from Laon had a view of the Jardin de Luxembourg - if he stuck his head out of the window as far as it would go and twisted it to the left, a smudge of green foliage appeared in the corner of one eye. That had been his best apartment to date. They had decorated it in the 'Bohemian' style of the 1830s : a few volumes of Shakespeare and Victor Hugo, a Phrygian cap, an Algerian hookah, a skull on a broomstick handle (from the brother of a friend, Charles Toubin, who was an intern at one of the big hospitals) and, of course, a window box of geraniums, which was not only pretty but also illegal. (Death by falling window box was always high up the official list of fatalities.) For a proper view of Paris, they visited Henry's painter friends who lived in a warren of attic rooms near the Barriere d'Enfer and called themselves the Water-Drinkers. When the weather was fine and the smell of their own squalor became unbearable, they clambered onto the roof and sat on the gutters and ridges, sketching chimneyscapes, and sending up more smoke from their pipes than the fireplaces below. Three of the Water-Drinkers had since died of various illnesses known collectively as 'lack of money'. When the last of the three was buried, in the spring of 1844, Henry and the others had found themselves at the graveside without a sou to give a gravedigger. 'Never mind', said he, 'you can pay me the next time, ' and then, to his collegue : 'It's all right - these gentlemen are a regular customers.

Graham Robb
in-those-days-long-before-view-over-rooftops-paris-was-unaffordable-luxury-the-apartment-he-had-shared-with-mousy-young-writer-from-laon-had-view-jardin-de-luxembourg-if-he-stuck
And at night the river flows, it bears pale stars on the holy water, some sink like veils, some show like fish, the great moon that once was rose now high like a blazing milk flails its white reflection vertical and deep in the dark surgey mass wall river's grinding bed push. As in a sad dream, under the streetlamp, by pocky unpaved holes in dirt, the father James Cassidy comes home with lunchpail and lantern, limping, redfaced, and turns in for supper and sleep. Now a door slams. The kids have rushed out for the last play, the mothers are planning and slamming in kitchens, you can hear it out in swish leaf orchards, on popcorn swings, in the million-foliaged sweet wafted night of sighs, songs, shushes. A thousand things up and down the street, deep, lovely, dangerous, aureating, breathing, throbbing like stars; a whistle, a faint yell; the flow of Lowell over rooftops beyond; the bark on the river, the wild goose of the night yakking, ducking in the sand and sparkle; the ululating lap and purl and lovely mystery on the shore, dark, always dark the river's cunning unseen lips, murmuring kisses, eating night, stealing sand, sneaky. 'Mag-gie!' the kids are calling under the railroad bridge where they've been swimming. The freight train still rumbles over a hundred cars long, the engine threw the flare on little white bathers, little Picasso horses of the night as dense and tragic in the gloom comes my soul looking for what was there that disappeared and left, lost, down a path-the gloom of love. Maggie, the girl I loved.

Jack Kerouac
and-at-night-river-flows-it-bears-pale-stars-on-holy-water-some-sink-like-veils-some-show-like-fish-great-moon-that-once-was-rose-now-high-like-blazing-milk-flails-its-white-refl
Say you could view a time lapse film of our planet: what would you see? Transparent images moving through light, 'an infinite storm of beauty.' The beginning is swaddled in mists, blasted by random blinding flashes. Lava pours and cools; seas boil and flood. Clouds materialize and shift; now you can see the earth's face through only random patches of clarity. The land shudders and splits, like pack ice rent by widening lead. Mountains burst up, jutting, and dull and soften before your eyes, clothed in forests like felt. The ice rolls up, grinding green land under water forever; the ice rolls back. Forests erupt and disappear like fairy rings. The ice rolls up- mountains are mowed into lakes, land rises wet from the sea like a surfacing whale- the ice rolls back. A blue-green streaks the highest ridges, a yellow-green spreads from the south like a wave up a strand. A red dye seems to leak from the north down the ridges and into the valleys, seeping south; a white follows the red, then yellow-green washes north, then red spreads again, then white, over and over, making patterns of color too intricate to follow. Slow the film. You see dust storms, locusts, floods, in dizzying flash-frames. Zero in on a well-watered shore and see smoke from fires drifting. Stone cities rise, spread, and crumble, like paths of alpine blossoms that flourish for a day an inch above the permafrost, that iced earth no root can suck, and wither in a hour. New cities appear, and rivers sift silt onto their rooftops; more cities emerge and spread in lobes like lichen on rock. The great human figures of history, those intricate, spirited tissues whose split second in the light was too brief an exposure to yield any image but the hunched shadowless figures of ghosts. Slow it down more, come closer still. A dot appears, a flesh-flake. It swells like a balloon; it moves, circles, slows, and vanishes. This is your life.

Annie Dillard
say-you-could-view-time-lapse-film-our-planet-what-would-you-see-transparent-images-moving-through-light-infinite-storm-beauty-the-beginning-is-swaddled-in-mists-blasted-by-rando
Say you could view a time-lapse film of our planet: what would you see? Transparent images moving through light, 'an infinite storm of beauty.' The beginning is swaddled in mists, blasted by random blinding flashes. Lava pours and cools; seas boil and flood. Clouds materialize and shift; now you can see the earth's face through only random patches of clarity. The land shudders and splits, like pack ice rent by a widening lead. Mountains burst up, jutting and dull and soften before your eyes, clothed in forests like felt. The ice rolls up, grinding green land under water forever; the ice rolls back. Forests erupt and disappear like fairy rings. The ice rolls up-mountains are mowed into lakes, land rises wet from the sea like a surfacing whale- the ice rolls back. A blue-green streaks the highest ridges, a yellow-green spreads from the south like a wave up a strand. A red dye seems to leak from the north down the ridges and into the valleys, seeping south; a white follows the red, then yellow-green washes north, then red spreads again, then white, over and over, making patterns of color too swift and intricate to follow. Slow the film. You see dust storms, locusts, floods, in dizzying flash frames. Zero in on a well-watered shore and see smoke from fires drifting. Stone cities rise, spread, and then crumble, like patches of alpine blossoms that flourish for a day an inch above the permafrost, that iced earth no root can suck, and wither in a hour. New cities appear, and rivers sift silt onto their rooftops; more cities emerge and spread in lobes like lichen on rock. The great human figures of history, those intricate, spirited tissues that roamed the earth's surface, are a wavering blur whose split second in the light was too brief an exposure to yield any images. The great herds of caribou pour into the valleys and trickle back, and pour, a brown fluid. Slow it down more, come closer still. A dot appears, like a flesh-flake. It swells like a balloon; it moves, circles, slows, and vanishes. This is your life.

Annie Dillard
say-you-could-view-timelapse-film-our-planet-what-would-you-see-transparent-images-moving-through-light-infinite-storm-beauty-the-beginning-is-swaddled-in-mists-blasted-by-random
from the upcoming novel, Agent White: A figure dressed all in black ran across the rooftops in the rain. A black cloak fluttered behind him as he ran two and sometimes three stories above the sidewalk where Ezra Beckitt stood. Long silver hair tied back in a ponytail flew out behind him, exposing ears that came to sharp points. His left ear was pierced with a silver ring, high up in the cartilage. Like the old man, this black figure wore a sword; but this weapon was long and thin, slightly curved. The blade stuck out behind him for three and a half feet, almost seeming to glow against the grey backdrop of the rain-soaked cityscape. Suddenly, the figure in black looked down into the street and saw Ezra there. More, he saw Ezra seeing him. Startled, he lost his sure footing and slid down the steep incline of an older building's metal roof, the busy street below waiting to catch him in an asphalt embrace. The figure in black got his feet under himself and pushed, flying out into space above the street. For an eternity Ezra watched him, suspended in the air and the rain with his cloak spread in midnight ripples around him, and then the figure in black flipped neatly and landed on the sidewalk half a block away. The pavement cracked, pushing up in twisted humps around the figure in black's tall leather boots. Before the sound of this impact even reached Ezra the figure was up and gone, dashing through the morning throngs waiting for buses or headed to the 'tram station. Ezra saw a girl's hair blow back in the wind created by his passing, but she never noticed him. A young techie blinked his 20-20's (Ezra's own enhanced senses picked up the augmented eyes because of a strange, silvery glow in the pupils) and turned halfway around, almost seeing him. And then the figure in black darted into an alley, gone. Ezra drew his service weapon and ran after, pushing his way through the sidewalk traffic. Turning into the alley he skidded to a stop, stunned; the figure in black was still there. The alley was just wide enough to accommodate Ezra's shoulders- he couldn't have held his arms out at his sides. Dumpsters spilled their trash out onto the wet pavement. The alley ended in a fire door, the back exit of a store on the next street over. Even if it was locked, Ezra didn't think it would pose a real problem for the figure in black. No, he was waiting for him. Ezra advanced with his gun out in front of him, and his eyes locked with the figure in black's. His were completely black- no pupils, no corneas, only solid black that held no light. The figure in black smiled, exposing teeth that looked very sharp, and laid his hand on the hilt of his sword. He wore leather gloves with the fingers cut off. His fingers were very long and very white. 'Don't even think about it, ' Ezra said, clicking the safety off his weapon. 'I am a Hatis City Guard, an if you move I will put you down.' This only seemed to amuse the figure in black, whose smiled widened as he drew his sword. Ezra opened fire.

Michael Kanuckel
from-upcoming-novel-agent-white-a-figure-dressed-all-in-black-ran-across-rooftops-in-rain-a-black-cloak-fluttered-behind-him-as-he-ran-two-sometimes-three-stories-above-sidewalk-
Have you ever wondered What happens to all the poems people write? The poems they never let anyone else read? Perhaps they are Too private and personal Perhaps they are just not good enough. Perhaps the prospect of such a heartfelt expression being seen as clumsy shallow silly pretentious saccharine unoriginal sentimental trite boring overwrought obscure stupid pointless or simply embarrassing is enough to give any aspiring poet good reason to hide their work from public view. forever. Naturally many poems are IMMEDIATELY DESTROYED. Burnt shredded flushed away Occasionally they are folded Into little squares And wedged under the corner of An unstable piece of furniture (So actually quite useful) Others are hidden behind a loose brick or drainpipe or sealed into the back of an old alarm clock or put between the pages of AN OBSCURE BOOK that is unlikely to ever be opened. someone might find them one day, BUT PROBABLY NOT The truth is that unread poetry Will almost always be just that. DOOMED to join a vast invisible river of waste that flows out of suburbia. well Almost always. On rare occasions, Some especially insistent pieces of writing will escape into a backyard or a laneway be blown along a roadside embankment and finally come to rest in a shopping center parking lot as so many things do It is here that something quite Remarkable takes place two or more pieces of poetry drift toward each other through a strange force of attraction unknown to science and ever so slowly cling together to form a tiny, shapeless ball. Left undisturbed, this ball gradually becomes larger and rounder as other free verses confessions secrets stray musings wishes and unsent love letters attach themselves one by one. Such a ball creeps through the streets Like a tumbleweed for months even years If it comes out only at night it has a good Chance of surviving traffic and children and through a slow rolling motion AVOIDS SNAILS (its number one predator) At a certain size, it instinctively shelters from bad weather, unnoticed but otherwise roams the streets searching for scraps of forgotten thought and feeling. Given time and luck the poetry ball becomes large HUGE ENORMOUS: A vast accumulation of papery bits That ultimately take to the air, levitating by The sheer force of so much unspoken emotion. It floats gently above suburban rooftops when everybody is asleep inspiring lonely dogs to bark in the middle of the night. Sadly a big ball of paper not matter how large and buoyant, is still a fragile thing. Sooner or LATER it will be surprised by a sudden gust of wind Beaten by driving rain and REDUCED in a matter of minutes to a billion soggy shreds. One morning everyone will wake up to find a pulpy mess covering front lawns clogging up gutters and plastering car windscreens. Traffic will be delayed children delighted adults baffled unable to figure out where it all came from Stranger still Will be the Discovery that Every lump of Wet paper Contains various faded words pressed into accidental verse. Barely visible but undeniably present To each reader they will whisper something different something joyful something sad truthful absurd hilarious profound and perfect No one will be able to explain the Strange feeling of weightlessness or the private smile that remains Long after the street sweepers have come and gone.

Shaun Tan
have-you-ever-wondered-what-happens-to-all-poems-people-write-the-poems-they-never-let-anyone-else-read-perhaps-they-are-too-private-personal-perhaps-they-are-just-not-good-enoug
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