Best 451 quotes in «description quotes» category

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

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

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

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.

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

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 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.

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

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

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

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

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 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 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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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

His presence suddenly made things feel off-kilter, gorgeous as if being crushed in lush velvet while cascading off the edge of a cliff.

His head always felt about to ache, but never began to.

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 voice gave out and he made several wavy motions with his hand, indicative of the shape of a woman who would probably be unable to keep her balance.

His voice reminded me of the slow stretching descent of honey from a highly placed silver spoon.

His voice was a deep and quiet rumble. It made me think of a freshly tuned tractor engine.. He didn't sound illiterate, but he didn't sound educated. In his speech as in so many other things, he was a mystery. Mostly it was his eyes that troubled me - a kind of peaceful absence in them, as if he were floating far, far away.

Holul corpului central al Hotelului Okura era spaţios, întunecat, cu tavanul înalt şi te ducea cu gândul la o uriaşă şi elegantă peşteră. Glasurile oamenilor care stăteau de vorbă aşezaţi pe canapele rezonau gol, ca suspinul unei vietăţi eviscerate. Mocheta era groasă şi moale, aidoma unui covor de muşchi antic care îmbracă o insulă de la Polul Nord, absorbind paşii tuturor oamenilor care se perindaseră pe acolo de-a lungul timpului. Bărbaţii şi femeile care treceau prin hol arătau ca nişte fantome care îşi jucau rolul iar şi iar, legate din vremuri străvechi de acel loc printr-un blestem. Bărbaţi ferecaţi în costumele lor ca într-o armură, fete subţirele în rochii negre, şic, gătite ca pentru o ceremonie din sala de recepţii. Bijuteriile lor mititele dar scumpe tânjeau după un ochi de lumină care să le dea strălucire, aidoma unor lilieci însetaţi de sânge. Într-un colţ, doi străini în vârstă, mari de statură, ca un rege şi o regină trecuţi de mult de prima tinereţe, îşi odihneau pe tron trupurile obosite.

I even made myself a cup of chamomile tea, the nauseating sweet smell wafting up from my chipped coffee cup like a hot diaper. This was supposed to be relaxing?

Aleksei with his impossible curls so very like her own, yet less seemly perhaps. Such hair is somewhat fairy-tale in a man. Poetic.

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.

I examined the portraits nearest to me but couldn't get past the sensation that here was the same man over and over, crouched in old boxes, readying himself to spit on my plate.

... I felt that I was not penetrating to the full depth of my impression, that something more lay behind that mobility, that luminosity, something which they seemed at once to contain and to conceal.

I felt that these celestial hues indicated the presence of exquisite creatures who had been pleased to assume vegetable form, who, through the disguise which covered their firm and edible flesh, allowed me to discern in this radiance of earliest dawn, these hinted rainbows, these blue evening shades, that precious quality which I should recognise again when, all night long after a dinner at which I had partaken of them, they played (lyrical and coarse in their jesting as the fairies in Shakespeare's 'Dream') at transforming my humble chamber into a bower of aromatic perfume.

If, however, the poetic end might have been as well or better attained without sacrifice of technical correctness in such matters, the impossibility is not to be justified, since the description should be, if it can, entirely free from error.

I finish a short afternoon shift that I spent learning about book descriptions with George. It is an arcane system that the Internet is putting paid to, where fair is foul and good is bad and perfect means you are a charlatan. Price-clipped is bad. Second impression is bad. Inscribed is bad, unless it is by the author, and then inscribed is good, but nearly as good as signed. Unless the inscription is to someone patently important—To my dear Laura, love from Petrarch.

If I could tell you about Red I would sing to you of fire Sweet like cherries Burning like cinnamon Smelling like a rose in the sun

I hiked up a path and into the woods, thinking about what I should be thinking about and almost having a real feeling—a feeling like, this is really sad, this is a sad place to be, a sad part of my life, maybe just a sad life. The woods were not particularly beautiful. I was not impressed by the trees.

I have seen many a face that was more good-looking — never one that looked half so good.

I have sincerely tried not to deride the action of men, not to lament nor to abhor them. I have done all in my might to understand them.- Spinoza

I found the brightness of the outdoors, rectangled through large glass panels.

Il deserto batteva qualsiasi cosa avesse mai visto. Non era per un fatto estetico, perché non poteva certo dire che fosse stupendo o meraviglioso. Era una questione di stazza. il deserto era lì. Stava. Ovunque guardasse. Monotono, imponente, come il mare. Però il contatto era più stretto, sentiva il calore, sentiva la sabbia. Era strano, gli piaceva.

Il faisait un froid de guerre.

Injustice implants and roots only the frustration and hatred, which may turn into the terror since such way displays, its literal description

I look out at the reservation, still and glittering with casinos, and think of all the death dried up and buried in its dirt.

Il traversa le sentier qui serpentait entre les arbres s'aidant de sa lampe torche. Le bruit des insectes nocturnes résonnait dans ses oreilles, on aurait dit que la forêt vivait, respirait, que les arbres menaçaient de se retirer de la terre et de s'abattre sur cet inconnu qui souillait leur temple sacré.