Best 268 quotes in «fog quotes» category

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    When you are happy, you feel the sunshine even inside the fog; when you are unhappy, you feel the fog even in the sunshine.

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    When I'm asked how to succeed in show business, I always say I haven't the foggiest

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    Without trees, mountains, fogs or rains, the Sun cannot create its own magic!

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    When I play my best golf, I feel as if I'm in a fog, standing back watching the earth in orbit with a golf club in my hands.

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    You come before me this morning with clean hands and clean collars. I want you to have clean tongues, clean manners, clean morals and clean characters.

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    You can't set a hen in one morning and have chicken salad for lunch.

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    You fog the mind, you stir the soul.

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    You couldn't put me in a social group setting. I'm probably a terrible anarchist deep down.

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    You'll be bothered from time to time by storms, fog, snow. When you are, think of those who went through it before you, and say to yourself, 'What they could do, I can do.'

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    Your words surround you like fog and make you hard to see.

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    An hour after they’d left the clearing, a heavy layer of fog filled the valley like a moist blanket. The trees grew into amorphous shapes, mountains gone. Ash stopped dead in his tracks. He stared into the forest with wide eyes. “Whoa! D’you see that?!” Vale jerked to a stop. “What? Where?!” “There in the trees.” He pointed into the forest to where the rainy undergrowth grew thick with a hazy veil of grey-white mist. “The haze.” “What about it?” “Looks like game lag. But like… real lag. Real life lag.” Ash grinned at her, his brown eyes sparkling. “Like the forest is supposed to be there, but it’s not totally loaded by the computer yet.” “That’s going to be trouble.” “Why?” Vale nodded to where Ash knew the mountaintops should be, but were no longer visible, caught in an otherworldly lag. “It means we can’t see the mountains.” “So?” “So we can’t see where we are going anymore.” Ash frowned. “Er… yeah.” “C’mon. Let’s keep walking.

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    As crazy as it seemed, it was almost like she was the fog.

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    At night the fog was thick and full of light, and sometimes voices.

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    Being closed in makes us edgy because it reminds us of our vulnerability before the elements; we can't escape the fact that life is precarious.

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    Beneath the foggy sky the glowing sea is hazy, the soft light of a scarf over a lamp.

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    Clouds are high flying Fog

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    Do not criticize those who leave the Sun and run towards the fogs! May be they just need to disappear to get rid of the burdens of life!

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    Don’t let the agony, regret, or fog of yesterday blind you to the fact that each new day carries with it a plethora of opportunities to move your life into the right direction.

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    Even now I remember those pictures, like pictures in a storybook one loved as a child. Radiant meadows, mountains vaporous in the trembling distance; leaves ankle-deep on a gusty autumn road; bonfires and fog in the valleys; cellos, dark window-panes, snow.

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    foggy hangover....fending off sloth and torpor....the battle within!!!!!

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    Fog is not mysterious, fog is the mystery itself!

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    Writing is this act of faith - a bit like driving in the fog: you can hardly see just in front of you. But you trust God's leading you and you just write into the space you can see ahead of you.

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    You probably can't imagine there being a glory in your life, let alone one that the Enemy fears. But remember - things are not what they seem. We are not what we seem. You probably believed that your heart was bad too. I pray that fog of poison gas from the pit of hell is fading away in the wind of God's truth. And there is more. Not only does Christ say to you that your heart is good, he invites you now out of the shadows to unveil your glory. You have a role you never dreamed of having.

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    Your enemy is one who misunderstands you; why should you not rise above the fog and see his error and respect him for the good qualities you find in him?

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    You who have never “been there” in the throes of grief, have no idea what is going on inside the head of the grieving spouse: the scattered thoughts, the constant worry that we will forget something or someone in our fog-induced state, that strange feeling of not quite “being all there” when out in social situations, the pall that covers everything, like a cloak of sadness that never lifts.

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    As you recover, you will feel more conscious of your surroundings. Freed from the ‘fog’ of your pain, fear, and confusion, you will awaken and see the world revealed as never before. You will begin to observe things, especially yourself. You will be aware of what you do and why you do it. You will begin to observe your own behavior and attitudes.

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    He liked the fog, the world quietened down and closed in. Glossy turned to matt, every stridency was muted, substance leached out of the brute matter all around. Things became notions, the brash present a vague memory. By some parallel process of slippage, his innumerable childhood memories of foggy days morphed into other memories. The fog of illness, real or feigned, of fevers and flu and febrility.

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    Hidden by diaphanous clouds of mist and fog floating gracefully over vales of heather and flowing runnels, she began to dance.

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    I admire the fog, how it fades into itself.

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    I could be the ceaseless mist that fogs your colourless eyes when you're lost in your universes.

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    If you want to see what the fog hides in itself, don't wait for the fog to disperse! Instead of waiting for something to happen in this short life, do something immediately! Enter the fog!

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    He who gives you many dreams is a great master, and the foggy weather is such a master!

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    If Chess is the switch,” Loretta said, “how does he turn the Fog off?” Bea bit her lower lip. “I don’t know—ask Chess.” “How would I know?” I said. “You try being a switch.

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    In the country, a semicircle is the shortest line between two points.

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    I had come out of the city, where story-telling is a manufactured science, to the country where story-telling is a by-product of life.

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    I thought of the cool, fresh air of the city I'd always dreamed of living in. The art museums and trolleys and the mysterious fog that blanketed it. I could almost smell the cappuccinos I'd planned to drink in bohemian cafes or hear the indie music in the bookstores I would spend my free time in. I pictured the friends I'd make, my kindred art people, and the dorm room I was supposed to move into.

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    Local fog in Venice has a name: nebbia. It obliterates all reflections ... and everything that has a shape: buildings, people, colonnades, bridges, statues. Boat services are canceled, airplanes neither arrive, nor take off for weeks, stores are closed and mail ceases to litter one’s threshold. The effect is as though some raw hand had turned all those enfilades inside out and wrapped the lining around the city... the fog is thick, blinding, and immobile... this is a time for reading, for burning electricity all day long, for going easy on self-deprecating thoughts of coffee, for listening to the BBC World Service, for going to bed early. In short, a time for self-oblivion, induced by a city that has ceased to be seen. Unwittingly, you take your cue from it, especially if, like it, you’ve got company. Having failed to be born here, you at least can take some pride in sharing its invisibility...

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    moonlight disappears down the hills mountains vanish into fog and i vanish into poetry.

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    Night is brushed aside like so much cobweb. The day is wound up and begins even before the last haunted dreams, the last of the fog, those spectral and evanescent residues, have faded away.

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    Night-time is being brushed aside like so much cobweb. The day is wound up and begins even before the last haunted dreams, the last of the fog, those spectral and evanescent residues, have faded away.

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    Nobody complains about all the fog. I know why, now: as bad as it is, you can slip back in it and feel safe. That’s what McMurphy can’t understand, us wanting to be safe. He keeps trying to drag us out of the fog, out in the open where we’d be easy to get at.

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    I have woken up…quite sloshed from night-mingled rains a little drugged, by mountain fogs I have been kidnapped for years....by a mere kiss.

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    LONDON. Michaelmas Term lately over, and the Lord Chancellor sitting in Lincoln’s Inn Hall. Implacable November weather. As much mud in the streets as if the waters had but newly retired from the face of the earth, and it would not be wonderful to meet a Megalosaurus, forty feet long or so, waddling like an elephantine lizard up Holborn Hill. Smoke lowering down from chimney-pots, making a soft black drizzle, with flakes of soot in it as big as full-grown snow-flakes — gone into mourning, one might imagine, for the death of the sun. Dogs, undistinguishable in mire. Horses, scarcely better; splashed to their very blinkers. Foot passengers, jostling one another’s umbrellas in a general infection of ill-temper, and losing their foot-hold at street-corners, where tens of thousands of other foot passengers have been slipping and sliding since the day broke (if the day ever broke), adding new deposits to the crust upon crust of mud, sticking at those points tenaciously to the pavement, and accumulating at compound interest. Fog everywhere. Fog up the river, where it flows among green aits and meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls defiled among the tiers of shipping and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city. Fog on the Essex marshes, fog on the Kentish heights. Fog creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs; fog lying out on the yards, and hovering in the rigging of great ships; fog drooping on the gunwales of barges and small boats. Fog in the eyes and throats of ancient Greenwich pensioners, wheezing by the firesides of their wards; fog in the stem and bowl of the afternoon pipe of the wrathful skipper, down in his close cabin; fog cruelly pinching the toes and fingers of his shivering little ’prentice boy on deck. Chance people on the bridges peeping over the parapets into a nether sky of fog, with fog all round them, as if they were up in a balloon, and hanging in the misty clouds. Gas looming through the fog in divers places in the streets, much as the sun may, from the spongey fields, be seen to loom by husbandman and ploughboy. Most of the shops lighted two hours before their time — as the gas seems to know, for it has a haggard and unwilling look. The raw afternoon is rawest, and the dense fog is densest, and the muddy streets are muddiest near that leaden-headed old obstruction, appropriate ornament for the threshold of a leaden-headed old corporation, Temple Bar. And hard by Temple Bar, in Lincoln’s Inn Hall, at the very heart of the fog, sits the Lord High Chancellor in his High Court of Chancery.

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    ¡No metáis en la cabeza lo que os quepa en el bolsillo! ¡No metáis en el bolsillo lo que os quepa en la cabeza!" "No ye may thrust your head in what I fit in your pocket! No ye may thrust in his pocket that you fit on the head!" "Cebinize sığanı kafanıza sokmayın! Kafanıza sığanı cebinize tıkmayın!

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    One day many years ago a man walked along and stood in the sound of the ocean on a cold sunless shore and said, "We need a voice to call across the water, to warn ships; I'll make one. I'll make a voice like all of time and all of the fog that ever was; I'll make a voice that is like an empty bed beside you all night long, and like an empty house when you open the door, and like trees in autumn with no leaves. A sound like the birds flying south, crying, and a sound like November wind and the sea on the hard, cold shore. I'll make a sound that's so alone that no one can miss it, that whoever hears it will weep in their souls, and hearths will seem warmer, and being inside will seem better to all who hear it in the distant towns. I'll make me a sound and an apparatus and they'll call it a Fog Horn and whoever hears it will know the sadness of eternity and the briefness of life." The Fog Horn blew.

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    The dense fog manifests ever-living gravestones, the tunes of decadence, the hearts that were doomed to dance alone. Here lies untouched beauty, a brittle dream, an unseen sea-born nightmare, an isolated acheirous harf, fishbones without flesh, a face without letters, the hypnotic power o Apollonian destruction. Ashes kiss the grapefruit essential oil skin, the soul beats with eaten sons and daughters, soaking wet serpents with cuspid tongues lollop for legendary goddesses.

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    No one can see very clearly inside the heavy fog, no one but the fog himself!

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    The fog is a chest, a magical chest! What wonders are hidden in it, the only way to see them is to dive into the fog!

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    THE MIST They fell asleep and dreamed a fog. They had words but not meaning. And with the mist, there came a fear. The mist grew thicker. A whispered voice from the Great Beyond. Love will heal the people. It washed away the scent of shame. No one said, “It should not be so.” There was silence. What is it? A strange feeling. Foreign at first but now familiar. We do not have to hide. The crystal light extends out. Pulsing with aliveness. The memory of pain passes. What were we so afraid of?

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    The sound of diesel fuel rushing through grimy pistons and cylinders below a morning-fogged window bored through his ears like a deep-water drill bit, and the thump of his own heartbeat cursed him for breaking one of his many rules.