Wind Quotes - Page 16

• An emptiness rules at its core, a rottenness, a silence when one of you retires to bed without saying good night, when you eat together without conversation, when the phone's passed wordlessly to the other. An emptiness when every night you lie in the double bed, restlessly awake, astounded at how closely hate can nudge against love, can wind around it sinuously like a cat. An emptiness when you realize that the loneliest you've ever been is within a marriage, as a wife.

  Nikki Gemmell

  Good Night, Lying, Hate

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• I stare at this ceaseless, rushing crowd and imagine a time a hundred years from now. In a hundred years everybody here-me included-will have disappeared from the face of the earth and turned into ashes or dust. A weird thought, but everything in front of me starts to seem unreal, like a gust of wind could blow it all away.

  Haruki Murakami

  Blow, Dust, Years

  Haruki Murakami (2011). “Kafka On The Shore”, p.59, Random House

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• Don't talk to the crazy kids. I longed to shout back that we weren't crazy. I'd mistaken her kid for a ghost, that's all. I wondered whether they had books about his sort of thing. Fifty Ways to Tell the Living from the Dead Before You Wind Up in a Padded Room. Yep, I'm sure the library carried that one.

  Kelley Armstrong

  Crazy, Book, Kids

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• ... every available inch of his face busts into a smile - whoa. Has he blown into our school on a gust of wind from another world? The guy looks unabashedly jack-o'-lantern happy, which couldn't be more foreign to the sullen demeanor most of us strove to perfect.

  Jandy Nelson

  School, Perfect, Guy

  Jandy Nelson (2010). “The Sky Is Everywhere”, p.15, Penguin

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• The time would not pass. Somebody was playing with the clocks, and not only the electronic clocks but the wind-up kind too. The second hand on my watch would twitch once, and a year would pass, and then it would twitch again. There was nothing I could do about it. As an Earthling I had to believe whatever clocks said -and calendars.

  Kurt Vonnegut

  Believe, Hands, Years

  Kurt Vonnegut (1969). “Slaughterhouse-five: or, The children's crusade, a duty-dance with death”

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• We talked for hours. He talked and I listened. It was like wind and sunlight. It blew all the cobwebs away.

  John Fowles

  Cobwebs, Hours, Sunlight

  John Fowles (1980). “The collector”, Dell Pub Co

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• Life is funny isn’t it? Just when you think you’ve got it all figured out, just when you finally begin to plan something, get excited about something, and feel like you know what direction you’re heading in, the paths change, the signs change, the wind blows the other way, north is suddenly south, and east is west, and you’re lost. It is so easy to lose your way, to lose direction. And that’s with following all the signposts

  Cecelia Ahern

  Change, Blow, Thinking

  Cecelia Ahern (2005). “Rosie Dunne”, Wheeler Pub Incorporated

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• You would wind up as a cat, I told her. They don't need anyone else. I need you, she replied. Well, I said. Maybe I'll come back as catnip.

  Jodi Picoult

  Cat, Needs, Need You

  Jodi Picoult (2009). “My Sister's Keeper: A Novel”, p.141, Simon and Schuster

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• Needle was Robb and Bran and Rickon, her mother and her father, even Sansa. Needle was Winterfell's grey walls, and the laughter of its people. Needle was the summer snows, Old Nan's stories, the heart tree with its red leaves and scary face, the warm earthy smell of the glass gardens, the sound of the north wind rattling the shutters of her room. Needle was Jon Snow's smile. He used to mess my hair and call me "little sister," she remembered, and suddenly there were tears in her eyes.

  George R. R. Martin

  Summer, Mother, Laughter

  George R. R. Martin (2011). “A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle: A Song of Ice and Fire Series: A Game of Thrones, A Clash of Kings, A Storm of Swords, and A Feast for Crows”, p.2982, Bantam

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• There's an east wind coming all the same, such a wind as never blew on England yet. It will be cold and bitter, Watson, and a good many of us may wither before its blast. But it's God's own wind none the less and a cleaner, better stronger land will lie in the sunshine when the storm has cleared.

  Arthur Conan Doyle

  Lying, Book, Sunshine

  Arthur Conan Doyle (2007). “The New Annotated Sherlock Holmes: The Complete Short Stories: The Return of Sherlock Holmes, His Last Bow and The Case-Book of Sherlock Holmes (Non-slipcased Edition) (Vol. 2) (The Annotated Books)”, p.1443, W. W. Norton & Company

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• It is enough for me by day To walk the same bright earth with him; Enough that over us by night The same great roof of stars is dim. I do not hope to bind the wind Or set a fetter on the sea -- It is enough to feel his love Blow by like music over me.

  Sara Teasdale

  Stars, Blow, Night

  Sara Teasdale (1917). “Love Songs”

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• Until I lose my soul and lie Blind to the beauty of the earth, Deaf though shouting wind goes by, Dumb in a storm of mirth; Until my heart is quenched at length And I have left the land of men, Oh, let me love with all my strength Careless if I am loved again.

  Sara Teasdale

  Lying, Heart, Men

  Sara Teasdale (1937). “Collected poems”

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• If you see everything through hovercams and feed stories, you wind up blind to what's right in front of you.

  Scott Westerfeld

  Stories, Blind, Ifs

  Scott Westerfeld (2010). “Extras”, p.178, Simon and Schuster

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• And so we stood together like that, at the top of that field for what seemed like ages, not saying anything, just holding each other, while the wind kept blowing and blowing at us, tugging our clothes, and for a moment, it seemed like we were holding onto each other because that was the only way to stop us from being swept away into the night.

  Kazuo Ishiguro

  Night, Clothes, Age

  Kazuo Ishiguro (2017). “Never Let Me Go: With GCSE and A Level study guide”, p.189, Faber & Faber

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• The wind, one brilliant day, called to my soul with an odor of jasmine. "In return for the odor of my jasmine, I'd like all the odor of your roses." "I have no roses; all the flowers in my garden are dead." "Well then, I'll take the withered petals and the yellow leaves and the waters of the fountain." the wind left. And I wept. And I said to myself: "What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?

  Antonio Machado

  Flower, Garden, Yellow

  Antonio Machado, “The Wind, One BrILLIant Day”

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• I like big books and I cannot lie. You other readers can’t deny That when a kid walks in with The Name of the Wind Like a hardbound brick of win. Story bling. Wanna swipe that thing Cause you see that boy is speeding Right through the book he’s reading. I’m hooked and I can’t stop pleading. Wanna curl up with that for ages, All thousand pages. Reviewers tried to warn me. But with that plot you hooked Me like Bradley. Ooh, crack that fat spine. You know I wanna make you mine. This book is stella ’cause it ain’t some quick novella.

  Jim C. Hines

  Lying, Book, Reading

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• when the fierce, burning winds blow over our lives-and we cannot prevent them-let us, too, accept the inevitable. And then get busy and pick up the pieces.

  Dale Carnegie

  Blow, Burning, Pieces

  Dale Carnegie (2004). “How to Stop Worrying and Start Living”, p.244, Simon and Schuster

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• Patrick started driving really fast, and just before we got to the tunnel. Sam stood up, and the wind turned her dress into ocean waves. When we hit the tunnel, all the sound got scooped up into a vacuum, and it was replaced by a song on the tape player. A beautiful song called “Landslide.” When we got out of the tunnel, Sam screamed this really fun scream, and there it was. Downtown. Lights on buildings and everything that makes you wonder. Sam sat down and started laughing. Patrick started laughing. I started laughing. And in that moment, I swear we were infinite.

  Stephen Chbosky

  Beautiful, Song, Fun

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• Like winds and sunsets, wild things were taken for granted until progress began to do away with them. Now we face the question whether a still higher 'standard of living' is worth its cost in things natural, wild and free. For us of the minority, the opportunity to see geese is more important than television.

  Aldo Leopold

  Nature, Taken, Sunset

  Aldo Leopold (1989). “A Sand County Almanac, and Sketches Here and There”, p.7, Oxford University Press, USA

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• A waft of wind came sweeping down the laurel-walk, and trembled through the boughs of the chestnut: it wandered away-away-to an indefinite distance-it died. The nightingale's song was then the only voice of the hour: in listening to it, I again wept.

  Charlotte Bronte

  Song, Distance, Voice

  Charlotte Bronte (2013). “Jane Eyre”, p.320, Simon and Schuster

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• Someday stars will wind down or blow up. Someday death will cover us all like the water of a lake and perhaps nothing will ever come to the surface to show that we were ever there. But we WERE there, and during the time we lived, we were alive. That's the truth - what is, what was, what will be - not what could be, what should have been, what never can be.

  Orson Scott Card

  Stars, Blow, Lakes

  Orson Scott Card (2009). “Children of the Mind”, p.166, Macmillan

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• As though she had entered a fable, as though she were no more than words crawling along a dry page, or as though she were becoming that page itself, that surface on which her story would be written and across which there blew a hot and merciless wind, turning her body to papyrus, her skin to parchment, her soul to paper.

  Salman Rushdie

  Soul, Skins, Hot

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• He who wears his morality but as his best garment were better naked. The wind and the sun will tear no holes in his skin.

  Khalil Gibran

  Tears, Skins, Naked

  Khalil Gibran (2007). “Kahlil Gibran: Masterpieces”

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• Sword, I name thee Brisingr! And with a sound of rushing wind the blade burst into flame, an envelope of sapphire-blue fire writhing about the razor-sharp steel.

  Christopher Paolini

  Fire, Blue, Flames

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• Memory is the seamstress, and a capricious one at that. Memory runs her needle in and out, up and down, hither and thither. We know not what comes next, or what follows after. Thus, the most ordinary movement in the world, such as sitting down at a table and pulling the inkstand towards one, may agitate a thousand odd, disconnected fragments, now bright, now dim, hanging and bobbing and dipping and flaunting, like the underlinen of a family of fourteen on a line in a gale of wind.

  Virginia Woolf

  Running, Memories, Sitting

  Virginia Woolf (2007). “Selected Works of Virginia Woolf”, p.436, Wordsworth Editions

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