Best 663 quotes in «ice quotes» category

A flower. White and whiskered in a fringe of ice. Silken petals held together in a loose grip

Agnes walked in with a tray of gorgeous raspberry tortes, fruit sorbet, and pistachio ice.

(...) a man encased in ice, his eyes hard and his voice like a frosty exhale.

But germs are the most common snowflake starters and lie at the heart of 85 percent of all flakes.2 So next time you gaze at a lovely snowstorm, inform your favorite germophobe or hypochondriac that living bacteria sit shivering in most of those untold billions of flakes. Then hand him or her a snow cone or organize a catch-a-snowflake-on-your-tongue party. Once the ice-forming process is started, more molecules join the party, and the crystal grows. It can ultimately become either a snowflake or a rough granule of ice called by the odd name graupel. A snowflake contains ten quintillion water molecules. That’s ten million trillion. Ten snowflakes—which can fit on your thumb tip—have the same number of molecules as there are grains of sand on the earth. Or stars in the visible universe. How many flakes, how many molecules fashioned the snowy landscape I was observing as I drove east? It numbed the brain.

As her fate, she accepted the world of ice, shining, shimmering, dead; she resigned herself to the triumph of glaciers and the death of the world.

By coming down elbow first, I'd made a large enough crack in the ice to sink through. The water was so cold that it stopped time.

En réponse à cette sorcellerie, les lames runiques de Skynth s’illuminèrent et se couvrirent d’une fine pellicule glacée alors qu’une litanie enflait dans les rangs des défenseurs : Si les Dieux d’Yskaz le veulent… L’on siégera à leur droite Sous les étoiles cristallines et moirées Dans les glaces scintillantes Si les Dieux d’Yskaz le veulent… L’on passera à leur gauche Sur les brisants nuées pâles et mouvantes Dans les Landes Figées Si les Dieux d’Yskaz le veulent… Le peuple d’Yskaz affectionnait les runes de froid au combat et l’on disait volontiers dans les cinq royaumes que le baiser d’une lame en acier d’Yskaz était plus froid que la mort elle-même.

By March, the worst of the winter would be over. The snow would thaw, the rivers begin to run and the world would wake into itself again. Not that year. Winter hung in there, like an invalid refusing to die. Day after grey day the ice stayed hard; the world remained unfriendly and cold.

Emotions, whims and lies, fascinations and games. Feelings and their absence. Gifts, which may not be accepted. Lies and truth. What is truth? The negation of lies? Or the statement of a fact? And if the fact is a lie, what then is the truth? Who is full of feelings which torment him, and who is the empty carapace of a cold skull? Who? What is truth, Geralt? What is the essence of truth?’ ‘I don’t know, Yen. Tell me.’ ‘No,’ she said and lowered her eyes. For the first time. He had never seen her do that before. Never. ‘No,’ she repeated. ‘I cannot, Geralt. I cannot tell you that. That bird, begotten from the touch of your hand, will tell you. Bird? What is the essence of truth?’ ‘Truth,’ the kestrel said, ‘is a shard of ice.

From the eyes of the ice, sunset is a big event, it is a great opportunity to live longer!

Fear melts like ice when we allow love's divine light to shine upon our ignorance.

Fire and Ice Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice. From what I’ve tasted of desire I hold with those who favor fire. But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate To say that for destruction ice Is also great And would suffice.

He who cannot put his thoughts on ice should not enter into the heat of dispute.

Her albino hair illuminated my dreams, shining brighter than moonlight.

He’d fallen in the trap before of believing she had the cold soul of an ice queen, but moments like these, it seemed more like she’d been encased a long time ago and couldn’t break free.

He could, Andi." Andi's heart turned to ice. It wasn't possible. He was dead, cast away into some deep, dark hell where he'd never be able to claw his way back out.

I allowed myself a microscopic view into his ice-colored eyes. It was like viewing one of those photographs of the Arctic region – very foreign, exotic, clearly a place you’ve never dreamed of going.

I must have ice in my veins to do what I just did. I expect the ice to melt...But it doesn't. It just gets colder and colder...And I welcome it.

I have two eyes, and I go to see the ice.

I love you," he said. Icicles formed on his skin as she stared at him for several heartbeats. "Do you suppose that changes anything?" "I want it to." He knelt at her feet, but didn't even dare touch her hand. "Don, I want it to meant everything. It should.

I must freeze my heart to the one person who insists on setting it ablaze.

I am in love, and the river is beginning to ice over. I’d better go drown myself before I freeze to death.

Ice could sear and burn—sometimes far more intimately than fire—and he had scorched her with a savagery sheathed in only the merest pretense of restraint.

I drag the body out into the snowdrifts, as far away from our shack as I can muster. I put her in a thicket of trees, where the green seems to still have a voice in the branches, and try not to think about the beasts that’ll soon be gathering. There’s no way of burying her; the ground is a solid rock of ice beneath us. I kneel beside her and want desperately to weep. My throat tightens and my head aches. Everything hurts inside. But I have no way of releasing it. I’m locked up and hard as stone. “I’m sorry, Mamma,” I whisper to the shell in front of me. I take her hand. It could belong to a glass doll. There’s no life there anymore. So I gather rocks, one by one, and set them over her, trying my best to protect her from the birds, the beasts, keep her safe as much as I can now. I pile the dark stones gently on her stomach, her arms, and over her face, until she becomes one with the mountain. I stand and study my work, feeling like the rocks are on me instead, then I leave the body for the forest and ice.

I guess I was lucky I didn't drown, or smother in the thick, black, icy mud that the river left behind in its slow withdrawal back within its banks. I didn't feel lucky. When I regained consciousness, my head and ribs winning the battle with the rest of my body for sharp, almost unbearable pain, my first thought was Chrissy. Chrissy, pulled away from me by the merciless power of the water. Chrissy, lost somewhere, maybe injured, calling for me and I wasn't there for her. Chrissy, beautiful, wonderful Chrissy, quite probably lying in the mud, dead! My scream of anguish, of pain and loss, echoed through the empty Liverpool streets. There was no shame or embarrassment in that shout, that bellow of emotion. I had lost the woman I loved. Nothing I’d ever felt compared to the agony, the gut-wrenching loss of that moment. I cried. I sat there in the middle of a street I didn't recognise, not knowing how far the wave had carried me, and cried.

I stood on the old ferry dock and watched the icy sludge slide by. Patches of white ice slipped through, but mostly it was grey slush, sluggish and heavy looking. The air was sharp and clear, one of the few benefits of the evacuation and reducing temperature, the centuries-old odour of industry and modern life frozen and discarded, leaving a crispness previously only found among the peaks of mountain ranges. On the far bank stood the ruins of Birkenhead, where the riots had been particularly bad and the fires that followed were allowed to rage out of control. It had taken weeks for the conflagration to finally die, leaving behind soot-blackened husks of buildings, grotesque sculptures of melted glass and metal and more dead than anyone ever cared to count.

In January in Northern Russia, everything vanishes beneath a deep blanket of whiteness. Rivers, fields, trees, roads, and houses disappear, and the landscape becomes a white sea of mounds and hollows. On days when the sky is gray, it is hard to see where earth merges with air. On brilliant days when the sky is a rich blue, the sunlight is blinding, as if millions of diamonds were scattered on the snow, refracting light. In Catherine's time, the log roads of summer were covered with a smooth coating of snow and ice that enabled the sledges to glide smoothly at startling speeds; on some days, her procession covered a hundred miles.

So much ice. She thumbed a drying tear away. How much water can the weight of ice carry?

Mom asked for a cupcake miracle? Well, here comes the freaking holy angel of icing, at your service. --Hudson Angel icing? That's the craziest, corniest, most whack-ass stuff I've heard in my life

It was winter, and a night of bitter cold. The snow lay thick upon the ground, and upon the branches of the trees: the frost kept snapping the little twigs on either side of them, as they passed: and when they came to the Mountain-Torrent she was hanging motionless in air, for the Ice-King had kissed her.

I was the fire to your ice, the only snake eyes you ever rolled with that dice in your mind.

My dreams are all of fire – mother says dreams usually go by opposites, so does that mean the world will end in ice?

My heart will never forget what it’s like to fade in and out of time, to never know if one year or a thousand have passed by, to torture yourself with the idea of your soul trapped behind ice for all eternity. I know what torture there is behind ice.

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.

Over the vistas broke a cold gray light, such as seen in those false dawns that are neither night nor true morning, when the world and all its contents seem but shapes of mist, formed in vain hope and desire... If you awake from troubled sleep at such a time, you can only sit by the window and think of those that have been lost to you, those that followed your parents into those cold and heartless regions below the grass, silent and dark. Eventually, morning comes and the world resumes its solidity, but another tiny thread of ice has been stitched into your heart forever.

Patience is to wait for the ice to melt instead of breaking it.

She herself did not seem quite real. She was pale and almost transparent, the victim I used for my own enjoyment in dreams.

Scientific advancement carries risk,” Kohler argued. “It always has. Space programs, genetic research, medicine—they all make mistakes. Science needs to survive its own blunders, at any cost. For everyone’s sake.” Vittoria was amazed at Kohler’s ability to weigh moral issues with scientific detachment. His intellect seemed to be the product of an icy divorce from his inner spirit. “You think CERN is so critical to the earth’s future that we should be immune from moral responsibility?

She frowned. “I did nothing to arouse you.” He clenched his jaw, his stare growing more aggressive. “You breathed.

She had never known that ice could take on so many shades of blue: sharp lines of indigo like the deepest sea, aquamarine shadows, even the glint of blue-green where the sun struck just so.

She didn't pick her way over the terrain like she was afraid of slipping on the ice...She glided over it with long confident strides. Her hands were in her vest pockets. Her eyes were Susannah.

Somehow, impossibly, the interior of the space we’re in is coated in ice. It shines as light from above cascades down on it, reflecting and refracting, spinning different colors with every new facet of itself. There are planes and crags of it around the walls, with parts of it worked smooth, while others are ragged and shifting.", FADE by Kailin Gow

Silence can always be broken by the sound
 Of footsteps walking over frozen ground In winter when the melancholy trees Stand abject and let their branches freeze

The catastrophic event of 12,000 years ago, having melted much of the planet's ice and causing a global sea rise of some 350 feet, could have been so intense as to have raised global temperatures by six degrees Celsius [...]. The ending of the last ice age was not a gradual event, as most people would assume, but fast and intense.

Take it all in all, I do not believe anybody on Earth has it worse than an Emperor penguin.

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 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 field was covered with ice crystals sticking up like a garden of little diamonds. Sophia was beside her now, and the two animals walked slowly into the crystal blossoms. Flora was enchanted. For a moment she forgot she was hungry, tired, and ill-equipped to make this journey. She forgot to worry about Oscar. She forgot to worry that there would never be a useful job for her. She kicked up her front hooves with each step and watched the ice crystals scatter in front of her.

The infrastructure of power is human neurosoft compatible ROM. Authority instantiates itself as linear instruction pathways, genetic baboonery, scriptures, traditions, rituals, and gerontocratic hierarchies, resonant with the dominator ur-myth that the nature of reality has already been decided. If you want to find ICE, try thinking about what is blocking you out of the past. It certainly isn’t a law of nature. Temporalization decompresses intensity, installing constraint.

Then fire rained down into the souls of the passionate, melting the ice that had kept them frozen in fear. The fire that now shone out from their hearts led the way for the lost. The light lit the darkness, empowering all those who could see. Fuel the fire.