Best 828 quotes in «cold quotes» category

Men do not become tyrants in order that they may not suffer cold.

Michigan isn't just cold in December; it's artic.

Most people wouldn’t be messed up if only their heart were as cold as they show it to be.

My heart is like an iceberg, an ice shelf floating freely and only a small portion is visible to the human eye, but on fire. Beautiful and cold, yet warm, and even the strongest structure could break if experience didn’t teach there are depth and strength that hides so cleverly beneath the surface.

My flesh and blood...when it rises against me, is not my flesh and blood. I discard it.

Mr. Albert? Mr. Albert?” Harley said. “Just Albert’s fine,” Albert said tersely. “Me and Janice are thirsty.” “I’m sorry, but I don’t have any water on me.” He managed a tight smile and moved on. But now Janice was crying and Harley was pleading. “We used to live with Mary and she gave us water. But now we have to live with Summer and BeeBee and they said we have to have money.” “Then I guess you’d better earn some money,” Albert said. He tried to soften it, tried not to sound harsh, but he had a lot on his mind and it came out sounding mean. Now Harley started to cry, too. “If you’re thirsty, stop crying,” Albert snapped. “What do you think tears are made of?

Never Forget Who You Are Beacause Its Like Forgetingg Water Is Wet,The Sun Is Bright,Snow Is Cold.Its Rudunent.

Nu hører du Læser, hvad Handel og Kaar Vi fattig' Nord-lændinger daglig udstaar, Og hvorpaa vi faar os at lave.

NIGHT SNOW I was surprised my quilt and pillow were cold, I see that now the window's bright again. Deep in the night, I know the snow is thick, I sometimes hear the sound as bamboo snaps.

No matter how cold your proverbial winter, you can plant seeds of change in your life by changing your thoughts and actions.

Nothing is so cold and so calculating as money in a void where love and hope had been.

One cold shower in morning, is a great and unexpected from you.

One cold November, I resolved to kill the staircase spawn... ("Staircase Man" by Diane Doniol-Valcroze & Arthur K. Flam)

On a world where a common table implement is a little device with which you crack the ice that has formed on your drink between drafts, hot beer is a thing you come to appreciate.

Outside the window, there slides past that unimaginable and deserted vastness where night is coming on, the sun declining in ghastly blood-streaked splendour like a public execution across, it would seem, half a continent, where live only bears and shooting stars and the wolves who lap congealing ice from water that holds within it the entire sky. All white with snow as if under dustsheets, as if laid away eternally as soon as brought back from the shop, never to be used or touched. Horrors! And, as on a cyclorama, this unnatural spectacle rolls past at twenty-odd miles an hour in a tidy frame of lace curtains only a little the worse for soot and drapes of a heavy velvet of dark, dusty blue.

Outside, the sky was clear, stars gleaming in its ebony vastness like celestial fireflies. It was bitterly cold, and Hywel's every breath trailed after him in pale puffs of smoke. The glazed snow crackled underfoot as he started towards the great hall.

People leave you out in the cold and get mad when you learn how to get warm by yourself.

People are like water: Many rush pass you, as some will over-flood. Some will drown you, or force you to go their current ways. Some will be cold or hot-tempered, but try to say with the warm ones. Some will come as a raging wave and cause a ripple, or a calm sea, supporting you, quenching your thirst, and flow by your side to where kisses will always stay wet.

Rather, that rigidity had simply been given sporadic spots of wrath, coupled with the sprinkling of secrets, and placed in a cold corner to slowly stew and starve––leaving it no choice but to eventually break through with blooms of fury. And on the night of Cornelius’s arrival, it at long last broke through.

Rain is just like you, When it come, it gets cold.. When i remember, i feel blue

She tilted her head back, breathing deeply. It was a stone gray day, the sea a bleak slate broken up by whitecaps, the sky pleated with thick ripples of cloud. A hard wind filled the sails, carrying the little boat over the waves. 'It feels good to be this kind of cold,' she murmured. 'This kind?' 'Wind in your hair, sea spray on your skin. The cold of the living.

Seasons of the heart. To get through what I must I'm often encased in ice and for months he chips away until he can see my face and after a while, I begin to thaw. As warmth and feeling returns, my emotions continue to build until my personality is set on fire. When he leaves, the fire dwindles until there is but a flicker. Then there is stillness and winter returns.

See, it’s like I’ve always told you, you’re a waste of human life and you would be better off as a grain of sand. If you were a grain of sand, you would serve a purpose in this life. The dirt that holds me up from touching something lower than you. Now you know where you stand in this world. Right below me.

She had died, I just never told her. So still, we walk, eat and sleep together, in fear one day she'll come to realize it.

Rejoice with glitters of ashes tonight Sparkling for moon's spiced silver bite Upon skin of darkness, loving night more Storm begins unlocking cold wind's door

Seasons happened and things got colder and harder and suddenly I found myself smoking circles in the air by myself in the snow and I was not okay.

She was carrying with her, the cold. She was holding on to that icy stone of grief. It had been there all along, sitting high in her chest, and with every step another fissure split through its middle-shivering over the orchard, frosting and melting, seasons flickering around her with the rhythm of her breaths, with the beat of her heart, she and the trees and the earth all part of the same creature.

She was the sky full of surprises. Her dreams were blue and breathtaking as a bright day and her secrets were dark and poetic as a cold night. Either way, she was the most beautiful mess that one had ever come across.

Shit on me. Cold wet balls for more than thirty blocks. This is really going to suck major ass.

Snow cleaning of the world's largest telescope mirrors was an impressive sight. The optics technicians would climb into a huge telescopic boom lift and spray immense clouds of cold carbon dioxide snow and gas onto the ten meter diameter mirrors high above the floor indoors. It would cause some of the accumulated dirt to magically fall off, leaving it less dirty.

So I am not a broken heart. I am not the weight I lost or miles or ran and I am not the way I slept on my doorstep under the bare sky in smell of tears and whiskey because my apartment was empty and if I were to be this empty I wanted something solid to sleep on. Like concrete. I am not this year and I am not your fault. I am muscles building cells, a little every day, because they broke that day, but bones are stronger once they heal and I am smiling to the bus driver and replacing my groceries once a week and I am not sitting for hours in the shower anymore. I am the way a life unfolds and bloom and seasons come and go and I am the way the spring always finds a way to turn even the coldest winter into a field of green and flowers and new life. I am not your fault.

Snow was the most beautiful thing Amitola had ever seen. It fell so gracefully and drizzled her skin like a cold whisper.

So they went running together, silent, toward the vast wastes of snow where no living thing but they two moved under the stars of night.

Sometimes it is easier to feel the veins wilted and empty than to sense the coldness of blood in fear

Sometime I wonder why I walk alone on this cold, windy road. Maybe I have no one to love or no one love me at all?

... the city around us seemed colder than ever again, and I realised that even if it really had sensed something going on, it certainly didn't care. It moved forward again. I could feel it. I could almost hear it laugh and taste it. Close. Watching. Mocking. And it was cold, so cold, as it watched my sister bleeding at the back of our house.

The camp lived up to expectations as warmly dressed guards forced them to undress outside the gate where they searched them for valuables and weapons. The captives stood for a long time in ice and show on that grim December 5, numb and shaking, while guards robbed them, according to Copley. Chicago had now received prisoners from most major battlefields of the Civil War, except Gettysburg and Antietem.

The choice lay out for me. Stay on land or plunge into the icy depths of the sea. I always chose the sea.

The cold embrace of the winter god is not for mortal maidens.

The cold is waiting to ooze through the soles of your shoes. Maggot-damp, this city is festering: home to hollow faces of grey flesh. They stare from windows unclean, into the sun never reaches: dismal lives lived in dismal constriction.

Spring can still be felt even if you lay under the bed Frozen heart can melt in coldness when wintry love misled

Tain Shir walks the deck of RNS Sulane between the bombs and incendiaries and steel-tipped barbs. A weapon among weapons but she alone is free. The tragedy of the knife is the hilt. The tragedy of the crossbow is the trigger. Shir has neither. She cannot be gripped nor fired. She is unmastered. The sailors are rude with her. So be it. Etiquitte is the domain of those whose power is conditional upon the respect of others, and Shir is unconditional. If she drifted alone in the void beyond the moon or if she walked among the monarchs of the ancient Cheetah Palaces she would not be altered in her capabilities or her intentions, for not one truth of her resides within a relationship to any other thing.

The blast that swept him came off New Hampshire snow-fields and ice-hung forests. It seemed to have traversed interminable leagues of frozen silence, filling them with the same cold roar and sharpening its edge against the same bitter black-and-white landscape. ("The Triumph Of The Night")

The cold seemed less relentless now. The small circle of white light from my bedside lamp and its hint of the dawn to come seemed to drive the worst of the chill away and the hot tea did the rest, as I lay and read further into the life of the young woman in the bravado coat.

The conviction that life has a purpose is rooted in every fibre of man, it is a property of the human substance. Free men give many names to this purpose, and think and talk a lot about its nature. But for us the question is simpler. Today, in this place, our only purpose is to reach the spring. At the moment we care about nothing else. Behind this aim there is not at the moment any other aim. In the morning while we wait endlessly lined up in roll-call square for the time to leave for work, while every breath of wind penetrates our clothes and runs in violent shivers over our defenceless bodies, and everything is grey around us, and we are grey; in the morning, when it is still dark, we all look at the sky in the east to spot the first signs of a milder season, and the rising of the sun is commented on every day: today a little earlier than yesterday, today a little warmer than yesterday, in two months, in a month, the cold will call a truce and we will have one enemy less. Today the sun rose bright and clear for the first time from the horizon of mud. It is a Polish sun, cold, white, distant, and only warms the skin, but when it dissolved the last mists a murmur ran through our colourless numbers, and when even I felt its lukewarmth through my clothes I understood how men can worship the sun.

The day I arrived in Yakutsk with my colleague Peter Osnos of The Washington Post, it was 46 below. When our plane landed, the door was frozen solidly shut, and it took about half an hour for a powerful hot-air blower- standard equipment at Siberian airports- to break the icy seal. Stepping outside was like stepping onto another planet, for at those low temperatures nothing seems quite normal. The air burns. Sounds are brittle. Every breath hovers in a strangle slow-motion cloud, adding to the mist of ice that pervades the city and blurs the sun. When the breath freezes into ice dust and falls almost silently to the ground, Siberians call it the whisper of stars.

The definition of a relationship is like a shower. You go in when it is cold, and come out when it is too hot.

The definition of a relationship is like a shower. You walk in when it is cold, and comes out when it is too hot.

The desperate piercing scream of horror echoed far above the sharpened tops of the trees wrapped in thin obsidian-transparent mist, and I startled jerkily, tripping again, and almost collapsed onto the cold moist ground.

The golden rules of eating from the unlimited food buffet: 1. Eat the hot food, as it is the least likely to food poison you. 2. Avoid the cold food, as it may have bacterial contamination. 3. Wash your hands after eating, as they may have bacterial contamination from the handles of the food ladles.