Sniffing 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
word-advice-sister-mine-if-you-want-to-keep-your-papers-private-dont-write-private-on-cover-it-set-mater-right-off-it-was-all-i-could-do-to-stop-her-sniffing-around-like-some-gre
have-you-been-sniffing-fairy-farts-kim-harrison
sniffing-glue-is-homeless-nonbelievers-prayer-mokokoma-mokhonoana
i-tried-sniffing-coke-once-but-ice-cubes-got-stuck-in-my-nose-dave-barry
anyone-can-see-forest-fire-skill-lies-in-sniffing-first-smoke-robert-a-heinlein
looks-like-i-picked-the-wrong-week-to-quit-sniffing-glue
a-brilliant-mind-was-never-as-clever-as-three-average-minds-sniffing-after-something-interest-robert-reed
i-keep-sniffing-my-skin-pleasantly-surprised-by-how-nice-it-is-to-smell-like-flower-ive-never-smelled-like-anything-before-tahereh-mafi
you-can-never-tell-about-person-by-guessingthats-why-language-was-invented-otherwise-wed-all-be-like-dogs-sniffing-each-other-to-find-out-where-we-alice-hoffman
guys-are-like-dogs-they-never-notice-if-youve-changed-your-hair-but-they-can-sense-when-theres-another-guy-sniffing-around-their-territory-candace-bushnell
old-friend-said-cadvan-filling-another-glass-for-himself-sniffing-its-rich-smell-if-we-do-not-trust-one-another-we-are-already-defeated-alison-croggon
yeah-hey-you-have-male-here-shay-walked-toward-hall-sniffing-air-and-hes-human-way-to-go-dani-lia-davis
sometimes-im-kind-spacey-im-like-ferdinand-bull-sniffing-daisy-not-aware-time-whats-going-on-in-real-world-richard-gere
i-had-dream-about-you-you-smiled-at-me-i-blushed-like-red-rose-then-you-started-sniffing-my-cheeks-i-realized-you-were-bee-id-been-deceived-jarod-kintz
for-sure-even-worst-blow-job-is-better-than-say-sniffing-best-rose-watching-greatest-sunset-hearing-children-laugh-chuck-palahniuk
some-guys-say-beauty-is-only-skin-deep-but-when-you-walk-into-a-party-you-dont-see-somebodys-brain-the-initial-contact-has-to-be-the-sniffing
this-face-is-dogs-snout-sniffing-for-garbage-snakes-nest-in-that-mouth-i-hear-sibilant-threat-walt-whitman
for-sure-even-the-worst-blow-job-is-better-than-say-sniffing-the-best-rose--watching-the-greatest-sunset-hearing-children-laugh
they-shoulda-called-me-little-cocaine-i-was-sniffing-much-stuff-my-nose-got-big-enough-to-back-diesel-truck-in-unload-it-drive-it-right-out-again-little-richard
that-just-goes-to-show-that-you-never-can-tell-about-person-by-guessing-frances-informs-her-niece-thats-why-language-was-invented-otherwise-wed-all-be-like-dogs-sniffing-each-oth
nobody-saves-america-by-sniffing-cocaine-jiggling-your-knees-blankeyed-in-the-rain-when-it-snows-in-your-nose-you-catch-cold-in-your-brain
we-know-that-something-isnt-right-with-you-jace-youre-both-too-strong-too-fast-kaledude-you-keep-sniffing-wind-like-lost-puppy-that-can-turn-into-rottweiler-at-first-sign-trouble
when-im-sniffing-around-new-territory-i-often-choose-rather-randomly-one-general-book-then-follow-its-bibliography-notes-to-other-more-specialized-works-to-primary-source-materia
that-was-one-things-that-interested-me-about-character-he-doesnt-want-to-be-hero-has-no-real-desire-to-save-earth-discover-aliens-hes-sniffing-around-looking-to-see-what-will-fal
after-his-dinner-wolfhound-liked-to-prowl-grounds-sniffing-grass-to-learn-what-creatures-field-forest-had-recently-visited-the-yard-was-merlins-newspaper-dean-koontz
in-some-aspects-alternative-medicine-we-are-fighting-almost-medieval-belief-in-magic-but-debunking-such-beliefs-is-like-telling-people-that-tooth-john-diamond
wild-donkey-accustomed-to-desert-sniffing-wind-in-her-craving-in-her-heat-who-can-restrain-her-any-males-that-pursue-her-need-not-tire-themselves-jeremiah-224
acts-169-is-meddlers-motto-simultaneously-selfless-selfserving-generous-but-stuckup-into-every-generation-americans-is-born-new-crop-buttinskys-sniffing-out-latest-macedonia-that
rotten-dirty-backslapping-winequaffing-haemorrhoidhosting-goatshagging-fartsniffing-crispinloving-goldsnatching-bastards-aaron-deste
i-read-that-as-marijuana-legalization-becomes-more-popular-it-could-affect-jobs-drugsniffing-dogs-or-as-those-dogs-put-it-thanks-bo-obama-jimmy-fallon
to-make-start-out-particulars-make-them-general-rolling-up-sum-by-defective-means-sniffing-trees-just-another-dog-among-lot-dogswhat-else-is-william-carlos-williams
a-tomb-is-vault-vault-is-home-mr-sadlot-said-casually-sniffing-flower-in-his-lapel-thats-where-deceased-chose-to-reside-that-is-where-he-will-be-placed-kekaju-hidden-swamp-robert
i-dont-know-what-i-saw-it-couldve-been-hallucination-you-get-those-from-sniffing-glue-youve-never-sniffed-glue-ive-smelled-glue-jamie-said-after-sarah-rees-brennan
its-two-oclock-in-morning-theyre-not-going-to-get-any-nooky-anyway-this-one-guy-guy-with-tshirt-guy-started-sniffing-girls-panties-frank-zappa
i-think-college-administrators-should-encourage-students-to-urinate-on-walls-bushes-because-then-when-students-from-another-college-come-sniffing-jack-handey
THE LILIES This morning it was, on the pavement, When that smell hit me again And set the houses reeling. People passed like rain: (The way rain moves and advances over the hills) And it was hot, hot and dank, The smell like animals, strong, but sweet too. What was it? Something I had forgotten. I tried to remember, standing there, Sniffing the air on the pavement. Somehow I thought of flowers. Flowers! That bad smell! I looked: down lanes, past houses- There, behind a hoarding, A rubbish-heap, soft and wet and rotten. Then I remembered: After the rain, on the farm, The vlei that was dry and paler than a stone Suddenly turned wet and green and warm. The green was a clash of music. Dry Africa became a swamp And swamp-birds with long beaks Went humming and flashing over the reeds And cicadas shrilling like a train. I took off my clothes and waded into the water. Under my feet first grass, then mud, Then all squelch and water to my waist. A faint iridescence of decay, The heat swimming over the creeks Where the lilies grew that I wanted: Great lilies, white, with pink streaks That stood to their necks in the water. Armfuls I gathered, working there all day. With the green scum closing round my waist, The little frogs about my legs, And jelly-trails of frog-spawn round the stems. Once I saw a snake, drowsing on a stone, Letting his coils trail into the water. I expect he was glad of rain too After nine moinths of being dry as bark. I don't know why I picked those lilies, Piling them on the grass in heaps, For after an hour they blackened, stank. When I left at dark, Red and sore and stupid from the heat, Happy as if I'd built a town, All over the grass were rank Soft, decaying heaps of lilies And the flies over them like black flies on meat...

Doris Lessing
the-lilies-this-morning-it-was-on-pavement-when-that-smell-hit-me-again-and-set-houses-reeling-people-passed-like-rain-the-way-rain-moves-advances-over-hills-and-it-was-hot-hot-d
I realized I still had my eyes shut. I had shut them when I put my face to the screen, like I was scared to look outside. Now I had to open them. I looked out the window and saw for the first time how the hospital was out in the country. The moon was low in the sky over the pastureland; the face of it was scarred and scuffed where it had just torn up out of the snarl of scrub oak and madrone trees on the horizon. The stars up close to the moon were pale; they got brighter and braver the farther they got out of the circle of light ruled by the giant moon. It called to mind how I noticed the exact same thing when I was off on a hunt with Papa and the uncles and I lay rolled in blankets Grandma had woven, lying off a piece from where the men hunkered around the fire as they passed a quart jar of cactus liquor in a silent circle. I watched that big Oregon prairie moon above me put all the stars around it to shame. I kept awake watching, to see if the moon ever got dimmer or if the stars got brighter, till the dew commenced to drift onto my cheeks and I had to pull a blanket over my head. Something moved on the grounds down beneath my window - cast a long spider of shadow out across the grass as it ran out of sight behind a hedge. When it ran back to where I could get a better look, I saw it was a dog, a young, gangly mongrel slipped off from home to find out about things went on after dark. He was sniffing digger squirrel holes, not with a notion to go digging after one but just to get an idea what they were up to at this hour. He'd run his muzzle down a hole, butt up in the air and tail going, then dash off to another. The moon glistened around him on the wet grass, and when he ran he left tracks like dabs of dark paint spattered across the blue shine of the lawn. Galloping from one particularly interesting hole to the next, he became so took with what was coming off - the moon up there, the night, the breeze full of smells so wild makes a young dog drunk - that he had to lie down on his back and roll. He twisted and thrashed around like a fish, back bowed and belly up, and when he got to his feet and shook himself a spray came off him in the moon like silver scales. He sniffed all the holes over again one quick one, to get the smells down good, then suddenly froze still with one paw lifted and his head tilted, listening. I listened too, but I couldn't hear anything except the popping of the window shade. I listened for a long time. Then, from a long way off, I heard a high, laughing gabble, faint and coming closer. Canada honkers going south for the winter. I remembered all the hunting and belly-crawling I'd ever done trying to kill a honker, and that I never got one. I tried to look where the dog was looking to see if I could find the flock, but it was too dark. The honking came closer and closer till it seemed like they must be flying right through the dorm, right over my head. Then they crossed the moon - a black, weaving necklace, drawn into a V by that lead goose. For an instant that lead goose was right in the center of that circle, bigger than the others, a black cross opening and closing, then he pulled his V out of sight into the sky once more. I listened to them fade away till all I could hear was my memory of the sound.

Ken Kesey
i-realized-i-still-had-my-eyes-shut-i-had-shut-them-when-i-put-my-face-to-screen-like-i-was-scared-to-look-outside-now-i-had-to-open-them-i-looked-out-window-saw-for-first-time-h
Despite an icy northeast wind huffing across the bay I sneak out after dark, after my mother falls asleep clutching her leather Bible, and I hike up the rutted road to the frosted meadow to stand in mist, my shoes in muck, and toss my echo against the moss-covered fieldstone corners of the burned-out church where Sunday nights in summer for years Father Thomas, that mad handsome priest, would gather us girls in the basement to dye the rose cotton linen cut-outs that the deacon's daughter, a thin beauty with short white hair and long trim nails, would stitch by hand each folded edge then steam-iron flat so full of starch, stiffening fabric petals, which we silly Sunday school girls curled with quick sharp pulls of a scissor blade, forming clusters of curved petals the younger children assembled with Krazy glue and fuzzy green wire, sometimes adding tissue paper leaves, all of us gladly laboring like factory workers rather than have to color with crayon stubs the robe of Christ again, Christ with his empty hands inviting us to dine, Christ with a shepherd's staff signaling to another flock of puffy lambs, or naked Christ with a drooping head crowned with blackened thorns, and Lord how we laughed later when we went door to door in groups, visiting the old parishioners, the sick and bittersweet, all the near dead, and we dropped our bikes on the perfect lawns of dull neighbors, agnostics we suspected, hawking our handmade linen roses for a donation, bragging how each petal was hand-cut from a pattern drawn by Father Thomas himself, that mad handsome priest, who personally told the Monsignor to go fornicate himself, saying he was a disgruntled altar boy calling home from a phone booth outside a pub in North Dublin, while I sat half-dressed, sniffing incense, giddy and drunk with sacrament wine stains on my panties, whispering my oath of unholy love while wiggling uncomfortably on the mad priest's lap, but God he was beautiful with a fine chiseled chin and perfect teeth and a smile that would melt the Madonna, and God he was kind with a slow gentle touch, never harsh or too quick, and Christ how that crafty devil could draw, imitate a rose petal in perfect outline, his sharp pencil slanted just so, the tip barely touching so that he could sketch and drink, and cough without jerking, without ruining the work, or tearing the tissue paper, thin as a membrane, which like a clean skin arrived fresh each Saturday delivered by the dry cleaners, tucked into the crisp black vestment, wrapped around shirt cardboard, pinned to protect the high collar.

Bob Thurber
despite-icy-northeast-wind-huffing-across-bay-i-sneak-out-after-dark-after-my-mother-falls-asleep-clutching-her-leather-bible-i-hike-up-rutted-road-to-frosted-meadow-to-stand-in-
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