Tinged 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
beauty-becomes-tinged-with-sadness-when-experienced-alone-ava-zavora
all-changes-are-more-less-tinged-with-melancholy-for-what-we-are-leaving-behind-is-part-ourselves-amelia-barr
id-describe-myself-as-pragmatist-tinged-with-idealism-vernon-a-walters
rock-n-roll-is-monotony-tinged-with-hysteria-vance-packard
rock-roll-might-be-summed-up-as-monotony-tinged-with-hysteria
everything-we-do-is-tinged-with-knowledge-that-this-may-be-last-time-that-we-will-do-this-that-makes-what-were-doing-incredibly-sweet-john-banville
what-we-perceive-as-present-is-vivid-fringe-memory-tinged-with-anticipation-alfred-north-whitehead
what-i-mean-is-right-from-that-first-time-there-was-something-in-tommys-manner-that-was-tinged-with-sadness-that-seemed-to-say-yes-were-doing-this-now-im-glad-were-doing-it-now-b
am-i-blind-wills-voice-floated-out-darkness-tinged-with-annoyance-im-not-going-to-be-at-all-pleased-if-youve-blinded-me-henry-cassandra-clare
your-manners-will-depend-much-upon-quality-what-you-frequently-think-on-for-soul-is-as-it-were-tinged-with-colour-complexion-thought-marcus-aurelius
every-philosophy-is-tinged-with-coloring-some-secret-imaginative-background-which-never-emerges-explicitly-into-its-train-reasoning
i-should-like-fields-tinged-with-red-rivers-yellow-trees-painted-blue-nature-has-no-imagination-charles-baudelaire
i-drink-sherry-wine-by-myself-because-i-like-it-i-get-sensuous-feeling-indulgenceluxury-bliss-erotictinged-sylvia-plath
the-heart-should-have-fed-upon-truth-as-insects-on-leaf-till-it-be-tinged-with-color-show-its-food-in-every-minutest-fiber-samuel-taylor-coleridge
if-you-look-closely-at-any-face-youll-start-to-see-that-different-areas-flesh-tones-are-tinged-with-four-other-colors-red-green-purple-yellow-doug-dawson
the-pigeon-here-is-beautiful-bird-delicate-bronze-colour-tinged-with-pink-about-neck-wings-marked-with-green-purple
in-true-spirit-holidays-let-darkness-your-moods-lead-you-back-up-to-light-when-new-years-rolls-around-your-resolution-will-be-tinged-with-new-elizabeth-lesser
human-beings-have-only-that-confusing-mass-chemically-driven-neurological-storage-to-rely-on-theyre-all-subjective-emotiontinged-how-can-they-trust-dan-simmons
the-atmosphere-beneath-is-languorous-is-tinged-with-azure-that-what-artists-call-middle-distance-partakes-also-that-hue-while-horizon-beyond-is-deepest-ultramarine-thomas-hardy
one-downside-factors-to-living-alone-is-that-you-sometimes-get-overly-absorbed-with-how-exact-segments-time-are-consumed-can-begin-to-feel-pleasure-with-life-that-is-hopelessly-t
we-often-praise-evening-clouds-and-tints-gay-bold-but-seldom-think-upon-our-god-who-tinged-these-clouds-with-gold-walter-scott
pippas-laugh-is-bitter-tinged-with-tears-ha-why-do-girls-think-being-beautiful-will-solve-every-problem-being-beautiful-just-creates-problems-its-misery-i-wish-i-were-someone-els
ernestine-used-to-remark-in-tone-tinged-with-envy-that-lill-was-probably-new-jerseys-youngest-gold-digger-that-few-adult-gold-diggers-ever-had-received-more-in-return-for-less-fr
laughter-is-wine-for-soul-laughter-soft-loud-deep-tinged-through-with-seriousness-hilarious-declaration-made-by-man-that-life-is-worth-living-sean-ocasey
an-ancient-mustiness-padded-air-tinged-with-with-acrid-scent-trace-war-between-paper-oxygen-played-out-in-slow-inexorable-burn-that-would-one-day-crumble-this-empire-to-dust-page
as-i-gave-my-hand-to-one-then-another-winter-knights-hoping-to-forget-kians-kiss-in-arms-other-dancers-i-could-feel-kians-eyes-piercing-through-me-their-flametinged-ice-searing-t
dare-i-say-i-miss-him-i-do-i-miss-him-i-still-see-him-in-my-dreams-they-are-nightmares-mostly-but-nightmares-tinged-with-love-such-is-strangeness-yann-martel
not-only-is-our-love-for-our-children-sometimes-tinged-with-annoyance-discouragement-disappointment-same-is-true-for-love-our-children-feel-for-us-bruno-bettelheim
back-then-come-july-blazers-would-again-make-their-way-out-steel-trunks-evenings-would-be-spent-looking-at-snowcapped-mountains-from-our-terrace-spotting-first-few-lights-on-hill
When I lived on the Bluff in Yokohama I spend a good deal of my leisure in the company of foreign residents, at their banquets and balls. At close range I was not particularly struck by their whiteness, but from a distance I could distinguish them quite clearly from the Japanese. Among the Japanese were ladies who were dressed in gowns no less splendid than the foreigners', and whose skin was whiter than theirs. Yet from across the room these ladies, even one alone, would stand out unmistakably from amongst a group of foreigners. For the Japanese complexion, no matter how white, is tinged by a slight cloudiness. These women were in no way reticent about powdering themselves. Every bit of exposed flesh-even their backs and arms-they covered with a thick coat of white. Still they could not efface the darkness that lay below their skin. It was as plainly visible as dirt at the bottom of a pool of pure water. Between the fingers, around the nostrils, on the nape of the neck, along the spine-about these places especially, dark, almost dirty, shadows gathered. But the skin of the Westerners, even those of a darker complexion, had a limpid glow. Nowhere were they tainted by this gray shadow. From the tops of their heads to the tips of their fingers the whiteness was pure and unadulterated. Thus it is that when one of us goes among a group of Westerners it is like a grimy stain on a sheet of white paper. The sight offends even our own eyes and leaves none too pleasant a feeling.

Jun'ichirō Tanizaki
when-i-lived-on-bluff-in-yokohama-i-spend-good-deal-my-leisure-in-company-foreign-residents-at-their-banquets-balls-at-close-range-i-was-not-particularly-struck-by-their-whitenes
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
Asking a writer why they like to write {in the theoretical sense of the question} is like asking a person why they breathe. For me, writing is a natural reflex to the beauty, the events, and the people I see around me. As Anais Nin put it, "We write to taste life twice." I live and then I write. The one transfers to the other, for me, in a gentle, necessary way. As prosaic as it sounds, I believe I process by writing. Part of the way I deal with stressful situations, catty people, or great joy or great trials in my own life is by conjuring it onto paper in some way; a journal entry, a blog post, my writing notebook, or my latest story. While I am a fair conversationalist, my real forte is expressing myself in words on paper. If I leave it all chasing round my head like rabbits in a warren, I'm apt to become a bug-bear to live with and my family would not thank me. Some people need counselors. Some people need long, drawn-out phone-calls with a trusted friend. Some people need to go out for a run. I need to get away to a quiet, lonesome corner-preferably on the front steps at gloaming with the North Star trembling against the darkening blue. I need to set my pen fiercely against the page {for at such moments I must be writing-not typing.} and I need to convert the stress or excitement or happiness into something to be shared with another person. The beauty of the relationship between reading and writing is its give-and-take dynamic. For years I gathered and read every book in the near vicinity and absorbed tale upon tale, story upon story, adventures and sagas and dramas and classics. I fed my fancy, my tastes, and my ideas upon good books and thus those aspects of myself grew up to be none too shabby. When I began to employ my fancy, tastes, and ideas in writing my own books, the dawning of a strange and wonderful idea tinged the horizon of thought with blush-rose colors: If I persisted and worked hard and poured myself into the craft, I could create one of those books. One of the heart-books that foster a love of reading and even writing in another person somewhere. I could have a hand in forming another person's mind. A great responsibility and a great privilege that, and one I would love to be a party to. Books can change a person. I am a firm believer in that. I cannot tell you how many sentiments or noble ideas or parts of my own personality are woven from threads of things I've read over the years. I hoard quotations and shadows of quotations and general impressions of books like a tzar of Russia hoards his icy treasures. They make up a large part of who I am. I think it's worth saying again: books can change a person. For better or for worse. As a writer it's my two-edged gift to be able to slay or heal where I will. It's my responsibility to wield that weapon aright and do only good with my words. Or only purposeful cutting. I am not set against the surgeon's method of butchery-the nicking of a person's spirit, the rubbing in of a salty, stinging salve, and the ultimate healing-over of that wound that makes for a healthier person in the end. It's the bitter herbs that heal the best, so now and again you might be called upon to write something with more cayenne than honey about it. But the end must be good. We cannot let the Light fade from our words.

Rachel Heffington
asking-writer-why-they-like-to-write-in-theoretical-sense-question-is-like-asking-person-why-they-breathe-for-me-writing-is-natural-reflex-to-beauty-events-people-i-see-around-me
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