Best 451 quotes in «description quotes» category

Dark spruce frowned on either side of the frozen waterway.

Dark-bright fire lit eyes

Description is what makes the reader a sensory participant in the story. Good description is a learned skill,one of the prime reasons you cannot succeed unless you read a lot and write a lot. It's not just a question of how-to, you see; it's a question of how much to. Reading will help you answer how much, and only reams of writing will help you with the how. You can learn only by doing.

Detonations crash in from nearby like walls she's a void at the center of.

Elles étaient en touffes avec des racines d'or, épanouies, enfoncées dans les ténèbres et qui soulevaient des mottes luisantes de nuit. (à propos des étoiles)

Drunken women in very sheer catch-a-cold-or-catch-a-man dresses were acting like they were on spring break in Cancún. Inebriated men in dark suits were . . . making passes and grabbing asses and refilling glasses.

Dr. Morris soon recognized that the difference between successful and unsuccessful marriages can often be traced to how well couples are able to "bond" during the courtship period. By bonding he referred to the process by which a man and woman become cemented together emotionally. It describes the chemistry that permits two previous strangers to become intensely valuable to one another. It helps them weather the storms of life and remain committed in sickness and health, for richer or poorer, for better or worse, forsaking all others until they are parted in death. It is a phenomenal experience that almost defies description.

Ela olhou os miolos esbranquiçados destacando-se no arroz. Por aquele labirinto tinham corrido, um por um, todos os pensamentos do boi, alguns ainda deviam ter ficado perdidos por ali, os últimos: pensamentos da hora da morte, quando sentira o cheiro do sangue dos companheiros sacrificados lá na frente. Afastou o prato, repugnada. Era sinistro mastigar pensamentos, poderiam ressuscitar e ela ficaria conhecendo o boi. Pior do que isto, ficaria o próprio boi!

Eloquence is painted thought, and thus those who, after having painted it, add somewhat more, make a picture, not a portrait.

Elle se souviendrait toujours de la pâle lune automnale éclairant la scène du crime, des bandes jaunes entourant l'emplacement du cadavre. Elle se souvenait d'avoir serré son corps sans vie contre elle, et d'avoir pleuré toutes les larmes de son corps.

Era d'altronde uno di quegli uomini che amano assistere alla propria vita, ritenendo impropria qualsiasi ambizione a viverla. Si sarà notato che essi osservano il loro destino nel modo in cui, i più, sono soliti osservare una giornata di pioggia.

Even the beauty of the landscape was an abstraction, like the beauty of a man in an advertisement for a cologne you could not smell.

Everything about her was sweet, pale like honey. You would not have been surprised to see a bee caught in the tangles of that yellow hair.

Every day of his life alternated between this calm consumptive and Emmanuel bursting into song, between the smell of coffee and the smell of tar, alienated from his interests, from his heart, his truth. Things that in other circumstances would have excited him left him unmoved now, for they were simply part of his life, until the moment he was back in his room using all his strength and care to smother the flame of life that burned within him.

Everything is soft, like a fresh oil painting.

Famous revolutionary,' you say, and the laughter pumps out of your chest like blood, great almost painful spurts of it splashing up the building faces toward the marquee moon.

Eyeing her as a critic eyes a doubtful painting.

Gansey clucked at his bedraggled reflection in the dark-framed mirror hanging in the front hallway. Chainsaw eyed herself briefly before hiding on the other side of Ronan's neck; Adam did the same, but without the hiding-in-Ronan's-neck bit. Even Blue looked less fanciful that usual, the lighting rendering her lampshade dress and spiky hair as a melancholy Pierrot.

Fragrant, dreaming, unreal, and having to do, terribly, with love.

Fuori, la neve che ricopriva il selciato era così liscia e compatta da sembrare un velo di sfoglia spianata da un mattarello. Fiocchi impalpabili cadevano dal cielo scuro, assorbivano la luce dei lampioni accessi e mulinavano nell'aria come granelli di polvere di un vecchio tappeto percosso da un battipanni.

Fitz pulled her forward, and the warm tingling in her hand shot through her body--like a million feathers swelling underneath her skin, tickling her from the inside out.

For the moment however behold me sitting with Priscilla and Francis. A domestic interior. It is about ten o'clock in the evening and the curtains are drawn.

He laughed and came forward impulsively to kiss her—his affection a potent thing, a flourish of light. She was smiling, her tears feeling fresh on her face. He smelled of sweat and roses. She felt it in the palms of her hands, in her loins. It was right. It was Southampton she had wanted all along.

He had the beginning of wrinkles and the easy manner of one who has already made his mistakes.

Gula and Cali lie on their sides, their tiny adder-mouths showing the pink of their palates, their bodies throbbing with lustful and obscene dreams. The sky releases its burden of sun and color. Eyes closed, Catherine takes the long fall that carries her deep into herself, down where some animal stirs gently, breathing like a god.

He had a W.C. Fields twang and a nose like a prize strawberry.

He looked as if he had been beaten to death with a wine bottle, but by doing it with the contents of the bottle.

Her freckles looked as if someone had blown cinnamon across her nose and high cheekbones.

Here he comes like a stealing shadow, like a footprint of death into the rooms, stalking the past with freshcut blood in his hands.

Her features were dainty, her small slender wrists climbed up to become the delicate shoulders that beckoned him. Her skin was like peach-tinted cream and he need not have touched her to experience the melting softness of her body. Her perfectly oval face was austere and her manner a little haughty. Her expressions had delicacy as well as a particular strength that did not abate her femininity. It seemed that the world had stopped. Her voice sounded like a melody and she looked like a dream, an illusion, up close and personal.

He rises off the bed and tries to speak, but cannot stop the pain in his throat, and cannot articulate a word, capable only of an animal sound, a strangulated wheeze that shocks him deeply, enraging him, this sudden loss of the faculty of speech that feels somehow bestial and low.

Her fat neck jiggled as the words came out of her botoxed, pink mouth. Her heavy bosoms moved up and down from her agitated breathing, like two mountains that rose and fell from the turbulence of the earth beneath it.

He spoke so effortlessly, as if his mouth were a musical instrument that just let sound out when touched, when opened.

He smelled a little strange, sweet and bitter at the same time, the way madness might have smelled if it could've taken a physical form.

He suddenly exploded in a flurry of arms and legs, out of which flew a ball.

He stood gazing at her; traces of the old fresco were apparent in her face and limbs, and these he tried incessantly, afterwards, to recapture, both when he was with Odette, and when he was only thinking of her in her absence; and, albeit his admiration for the Florentine masterpiece was probably based upon his discovery that it had been reproduced in her, the similarity enhanced her beauty also, and rendered her more precious in his sight.

He's the navigator, he could probably find you a route to Hawaii underwater.

He swung around. His body, bathed in the first rays of the sun, was stippled with color like a stained glass saint.

He was sometimes stern but more often kindly---just according to his lights, but he saw the world in simple shades of black and white, and found it hard to be patient with things that struck him as foolishness.

He was attentive but impersonal, and esteemed rather than loved.

He was a compact, clearcut man, with precise features, a lot of very soft black hair, and thoughtful dark brown eyes. He had a look of wariness, which could change when he felt relaxed or happy, which was not often in these difficult days, into a smile of amused friendliness and pleasure which aroused feelings of warmth, and something more, in many women.

He was too many things at once - a boy, a man, and everything in between - and the differing parts of himself seldom came into balance. She found him attractive in that way. Yet the perception saddened her: she herself wasn't too many things, but too few.

He went farther; agonised by the reflection, at the moment when it passed by him, so near and yet so infinitely remote, that, while it was addressed to their ears, it knew them not, he would regret, almost, that it had a meaning of its own, an intrinsic and unalterable beauty, foreign to themselves, just as in the jewels given to us, or even in the letters written to us by a woman with whom we are in love, we find fault with the 'water' of a stone, or with the words of a sentence because they are not fashioned exclusively from the spirit of a fleeting intimacy and of a 'lass unaparalleled.

He was almost twenty and Ree knew most girls would call him handsome or dreamy or some such. Sandy hair, blue eyes, put together strong, with bright teeth and one of those smiles.

He was a fine, tall, slim young fellow, with black eyes, and hair as dark as the raven’s wing; and his whole appearance bespoke that calmness and resolution peculiar to men accustomed from their cradle to contend with danger.

He was a small, chubby little man with a perpetual air of sadness about him, making him look like a baby that has dropped its rattle.

His body was tubby but his arms apparently couldn’t understand that, for they were long and scrawny. From his brow to an inch below his eyes, his nose turned up; from there on, down. His short upper lip slanted sharply toward his tonsils, which had the effect of making his chinlessness positively jut. (...) The bartender was fascinated by the way the teardrops proceeded down Biddiver’s amazing nose. One drop would dash almost halfway, and then hesitate, daunted by the hump. Then it would be joined by another teardrop, and the two, merging, would surmount the obstacle and slip down to hang glittering over the disappearing lip until a sob came along to shake them off.

...his eyes were exactly the color of that gleaming golden-brown moss you see on stones under the clear water of running brooks.

His heavy eyebrows lowered and he made some small, involuntary gesture with his hand that was recognisably superstitious, as if the words 'God forbid' had flowed into his body.

I begin to describe a three-tier cake. The bottom tier would be a deep, dark devil's food cake filled with thick chocolate custard. The middle tier would be a vanilla cake filled with a fluffy vanilla mousse and a layer of roasted strawberries. The top tier, designed to be removed whole and frozen for the first anniversary, would be one layer of chocolate cake and one of vanilla with a strawberry buttercream filling. The whole cake would be covered in a layer of vanilla buttercream, perfectly smoothed, and the tiers separated by a simple line of piped dots, looking like a string of pearls.