Smoky 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
in-countless-glints-so-smoky-gold
smudge-your-eyeliner-it-creates-smoky-effect
boxing-is-smoky-halls-kidneys-battered-until-they-bleed-roger-kahn
i-dont-usually-like-smoky-eye-if-there-is-any-smokiness-its-got-to-be-light-color
a-smoky-eye-nice-hair-are-not-going-to-make-my-night-any-easier
i-like-simple-makeup-but-bit-dirty-looking-around-eyes-i-love-smoky-look
let-us-listen-to-voices-our-forebears-in-smoky-cabin-souls-that-wish-us-well-are-murmuring-leopold-sedar-senghor
a-confused-labyrinth-smoky-stars-entangles-my-hopes-which-are-nearly-faded-federico-garce-lorca
a-lot-people-dont-realise-i-came-out-smoky-mountains-with-load-songs-dolly-parton
the-sun-had-just-slipped-behind-trees-evening-cast-its-dark-smoky-shadow-nancy-b-brewer
have-i-told-you-that-you-are-my-every-dream-her-eyes-shimmered-her-voice-went-smoky-with-emotion-not-recently-nancy-gideon
i-love-shows-that-are-in-dingy-little-dark-clubs-smoky-no-production-whatsoever-pink
i-definitely-love-smoky-eye-when-i-do-that-i-like-to-do-nude-lip-it-draws-attention-to-your-eyes
after-crossing-smoky-hill-river-i-felt-comparatively-safe-as-this-was-last-stream-i-had-to-cross-buffalo-bill
north-south-has-both-met-made-kind-o-friends-in-this-big-smoky-place-elizabeth-gaskell
fashion-tip-number-12-gray-is-not-color-to-wear-if-you-want-to-get-noticed-in-smoky-dingy-dungeon-jarod-kintz
troubles-cured-you-salty-as-country-ham-smoky-to-taste-thickskinned-tender-inside-marge-piercy
scatter-soaked-hardwood-chunks-over-your-coals-for-quick-easy-way-to-add-smoky-nuance-to-your-grilled-foods-emeril-lagasse
courtesy-which-oft-is-found-in-lowly-sheds-with-smoky-rafters-than-in-tapestry-halls-courts-princes-where-it-first-was-named-john-milton
grilling-grapes-may-sound-crazy-but-smoky-blistered-char-they-get-from-few-minutes-on-fire-gives-them-deep-winelike-character
it-was-kind-place-where-hard-drinkers-came-to-wrestle-their-demons-while-fallen-angels-drank-alone-in-dark-smoky-corners-ian-tregillis
one-hand-was-behind-his-back-he-held-it-out-presenting-bouquet-white-smoky-purple-lilies-theyre-straight-from-underworld-by-way-they-are-jess-c-scott
i-like-kind-dark-bronze-y-brown-smoky-eye-with-maybe-some-mascara-some-contouring-stuff-but-i-dont-like-wearing-black-pinks-i-like-it-more-tonal
one-hand-was-behind-his-back-he-held-it-out-presenting-bouquet-white-smoky-purple-lilies-theyre-straight-from-underworld-by-way-they-are-everlasting-they-wont-die-jess-c-scott
justice-shines-in-smoky-homes-honors-righteous-but-goldspangled-mansions-where-hands-are-unclean-she-leaves-with-eyes-averted-aeschylus
i-love-you-know-im-big-fan-prince-curtis-mayfield-smoky-robinson-its-something-to-be-said-about-man-who-can-be-masculine-but-still-display-that-sensitive-side-that-falsetto-does-
she-took-me-to-her-bedroom-smelled-like-cheap-hotel-never-had-cajun-queen-im-used-to-southern-belles-but-through-smoky-billows-my-tobacco-leaves-i-toby-keith
theres-nothing-that-can-replicate-smoky-flavor-char-when-ive-got-hankering-for-it-i-tell-my-wife-that-im-taking-care-dinner-i-have-three-different-types-barbecues-coal-gas-smoker
she-spoke-with-usual-cadences-young-sentences-curling-upward-at-end-all-statements-fading-into-smoky-implied-question-mark-as-though-nothing-could-be-said-with-any-reasonable-cer
im-smoky-eye-girl-i-love-playing-with-eye-colors-metallics-fun-stuff
the-wonderful-thing-about-cabaret-is-you-can-do-lot-things-you-cant-do-in-concert-you-cant-do-smoky-ballads-for-50-minutes-in-concert-its-different-animal
the-religion-christianity-is-mixed-sweetness-cruelty-reject-this-sweetness-for-she-wears-a-smoky-dress-out-hell-fires-stevie-smith
dark-cool-musty-smoky-where-light-fell-funny-everyone-looked-like-someone-you-knew-wanted-to-know-or-more-likely-wanted-to-forget-david-baldacci
trains-are-great-dirty-smoky-things-said-will-you-wont-like-it-tessa-was-unmoved-i-wont-know-if-i-like-it-until-i-try-it-will-i-ive-never-swam-naked-in-thames-but-i-know-i-wouldn
i-like-big-smoky-eyes-look-i-always-do-my-eyes-first-when-im-putting-on-my-make-up
hell-is-a-city-much-like-london-a-populous-and-smoky-city
so-youll-cheat-to-win-huh-ill-use-any-means-necessary-to-win-her-breasts-ached-at-smoky-tone-in-his-voice-like-hed-reached-out-rolled-her-nipples-between-his-fingertips-tracey-al
the-lilac-rose-collection-isnt-just-about-purple-it-features-dusty-pinks-heather-grays-which-are-more-natural-shades-purple-are-perfect-for-creating-feminine-smoky-eye
the-only-good-deed-ill-be-doing-tonight-is-for-angels-the-angels-havent-you-heard-every-time-i-make-you-come-angel-gets-his-wings-brady-dropped-his-smoky-gaze-to-gages-mouth-for-
he-takes-draw-on-cigarette-blows-out-smoky-ghost-i-reach-to-catch-phantom-in-my-hands-but-it-eludes-me-ive-been-trying-to-catch-ghost-for-as-long-as-i-can-remember-brenda-sutton-
cold-foggy-cold-soaking-through-fabric-biting-into-skin-clutching-bones-until-flesh-crawled-there-was-no-moonlight-only-orange-smoky-lanterns-light-made-snow-glitter-turned-shado
because-shape-my-eyes-i-can-wear-lot-make-up-i-can-do-smoky-look-in-evening-but-in-day-i-wear-lot-less-most-women-dont-deal-with-lip-pencils-they-have-been-given-bad-name-but-are
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
What do we have here?' Grant slurs at me. He seems different and it raises flags in my mind. His fingers wrap around a section of my hair and it scares me. His face is flushed red and his eyes are glassy and bright. I can smell the smoky scent of whiskey or scotch rolling off his tongue as he speaks and breathes heavily. 'I'm lost and I need a ride home.' My voice wavers as I speak and I hate it. I fist my hands in the hem of my blazer. 'I'll get Albert for you, but first spend some time with me, ' he slurs again, sounding like his tongue is too large for his mouth. As if sensing my attention, the tip of his tongue sneaks out and slides along his supple bottom lip. He smiles as he tastes the alcohol that's staining his mouth. His eyes are bright and shiny and glazed over. He has a smirk on his face that shows off his dimple. It no longer reminds me of Whitt. It seems sinister and dangerous- promising something I'm not ready to experience. The feel of his fingers playing with my hair gives me goosebumps and I shiver as my scalp tightens, sucking up the pleasant attention. I do my first stupid-girl moment of my life. I shameless crush on a guy and let it turn my thoughts to mush. 'Okay, if you promise to call Albert first.' I try to negotiate with him and he gives me a naughty smirk for agreeing. He backs me up with his physical presence. His front touches mine- chest-to-chest. His lips part and breathes the smoky, whiskey scent onto my chin. My back hits the door behind me with an audible thump. He reaches around me and I don't wince. I anticipate him touching me and crave it. Instead, his hand twists the doorknob by my hip and I fall backwards. I'm pushed into a dark room until my legs connect with the edge of a bed. I can't see anything, and the only sound is our combined breathing. I feel alive with caution. I'm aware of every hair, every nerve on my flesh. My senses are so in-tuned that I can feel my system pumping the blood through my veins nourishing my whole body.

Erica Chilson
what-do-we-have-here-grant-slurs-at-me-he-seems-different-it-raises-flags-in-my-mind-his-fingers-wrap-around-section-my-hair-it-scares-me-his-face-is-flushed-red-his-eyes-are-gla
on-flat-expanse-pancake-ice-war-stood-by-pale-riders-side-though-their-forms-did-not-touch-their-shadows-intertwined-black-on-black-in-smoky-caress-knew-youd-come-death-said-chee
From p. 40 of Signet Edition of Thomas Wolfe's _You Can't Go Home Again_ (1940): Some things will never change. Some things will always be the same. Lean down your ear upon the earth and listen. The voice of forest water in the night, a woman's laughter in the dark, the clean, hard rattle of raked gravel, the cricketing stitch of midday in hot meadows, the delicate web of children's voices in bright air-these things will never change. The glitter of sunlight on roughened water, the glory of the stars, the innocence of morning, the smell of the sea in harbors, the feathery blur and smoky buddings of young boughs, and something there that comes and goes and never can be captured, the thorn of spring, the sharp and tongueless cry-these things will always be the same. All things belonging to the earth will never change-the leaf, the blade, the flower, the wind that cries and sleeps and wakes again, the trees whose stiff arms clash and tremble in the dark, and the dust of lovers long since buried in the earth-all things proceeding from the earth to seasons, all things that lapse and change and come again upon the earth-these things will always be the same, for they come up from the earth that never changes, they go back into the earth that lasts forever. Only the earth endures, but it endures forever. The tarantula, the adder, and the asp will also never change. Pain and death will always be the same. But under the pavements trembling like a pulse, under the buildings trembling like a cry, under the waste of time, under the hoof of the beast above the broken bones of cities, there will be something growing like a flower, something bursting from the earth again, forever deathless, faithful, coming into life again like April.

Thomas Wolfe
from-p-40-signet-edition-thomas-wolfes-_you-cant-go-home-again_-1940-some-things-will-never-change-some-things-will-always-be-same-lean-down-your-ear-upon-earth-listen-the-voice-
Faded icon of the gilded halo, Once illuminating, inspiring; Admirers, enemies, lovers, family, A distant memory trodden under foot. Evanescent existence; flickering fame, A quintessence of reflections Incidentally etched on ancient relics. Can we conjure your presence? We barely remember Joseph Warren as the person who dispatched Paul Revere on his famous ride, and as the hero of the Battle of Bunker Hill, where he was killed in action. It wasn't always that way. For almost a century Warren was one of the most important and remembered founders of the fledgling American nation. John Trumbull's painting 'Death of General Warren at the Battle of Bunker's Hill, ' a renowned icon of American history, dates from that period. In it scarlet uniformed British soldiers, heavily armed and personally led by their officers, have just overwhelmed American entrenchments atop Breed's Hill, within sight across the Mystic River of Boston. In the background loom the eponymous Bunker Hill and the village of Charlestown, its houses and churches aflame, a smoky cloud framing the battlefield. The Americans, a motley amalgam of raw militia, countrymen and workers, try unsuccessfully to fend off the onslaught. New England's Pine Tree flag still stands within the American dirt fort in the unseasonably hot and breezeless early summer afternoon. The red coated attackers, brandishing the colors of the United Kingdom, will take it down in a moment. It is June 17, 1775: The defenders of an embryonic American Liberty are about to be defeated in a British Pyrrhic victory. In the forefront, Colonel William Prescott commands the Americans while rotund General Israel Putnam vainly shouts orders in the background. British Generals Burgoyne and Clinton command the British attackers as Major John Pitcairn, leader of the marines falters, mortally wounded, yet still supported by a soldier. British and Americans have fallen indiscriminately on the field among the detritus of battle. In the foreground, a finely dressed figure lies prostrate, his sword dropped to the earth. Prescott wards off a bayonet thrust by an onrushing British infantryman. It is a thrust the enemy's own superior officer, Colonel Small, curiously appears to want deflected. But the targeted figure already lies supine, looking skyward in a saintly blank stare. He is suspended momentarily in a halo of tranquility amongst the mayhem. This dying man can no longer smell the acrid, dense black powder smoke that hangs low in the windless oppressive heat, obscuring the afternoon sun. He pays no heed to the shouts of men nor the eerie lull in the previously deafening gunfire. The animation, his admonishments of others to action, the thrill and fear of battle, all suddenly calm. A single bullet annihilates in an instant inspiring words, the force of personality, the martial spirit in action, the reality and complexity of a human being. Dr. Joseph Warren, the central figure, moves from life to legend. Trumbull's iconic painting raises unanswered questions about its subject. How did a physician come to assume such a responsible role in this engagement? How did he meet his fate within sight of his home town? Why was he famous throughout the young United States as a model for involved citizenship? Was there any truth to the cynicism of his political enemies? Most compelling of all-why has this once beloved leader been so long and unjustifiably forgotten? This biography of Joseph Warren answers these and other questions. It utilizes modern analytical methods, uncovers new material, and sheds new light on 'established' facts... Please join me in getting to know Joseph Warren, accompanying him on his lifetime's journey to Bunker Hill, and considering the fate of his reputation and memory long after his heroic demise.

Sam Forman
faded-icon-gilded-halo-once-illuminating-inspiring-admirers-enemies-lovers-family-a-distant-memory-trodden-under-foot-evanescent-existence-flickering-fame-a-quintessence-reflecti
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