Wind Quotes - Page 11

• Birds are flyin' south for winter. Here's the Weird-Bird headin' north, Wings a-flappin', beak a-chatterin', Cold head bobbin' back 'n' forth. He says, "It's not that I like ice Or freezin' winds and snowy ground. It's just sometimes it's kind of nice To be the only bird in town.

  Shel Silverstein

  Nice, Winter, Wings

  Shel Silverstein, “Weird-Bird”

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• He spent a lot of time flying. He learnt to communicate with birds and discovered that their conversation was fantastically boring. It was all to do with wind speed, wing spans, power-to-weight ratios and a fair bit about berries. Unfortunately, he discovered, once you have learnt birdspeak you quickly come to realize that the air is full of it the whole time, just inane bird chatter. There is no getting away from it.

  Douglas Adams

  Air, Wings, Time Flies

  Douglas Adams (2009). “Life, the Universe and Everything”, p.148, Pan Macmillan

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• Maybe nothingness is to be without your presence, without you moving, slicing the noon like a blue flower, without you walking later through the fog and the cobbles, without the light you carry in your hand, golden, which maybe others will not see, which maybe no one knew was growing like the red beginnings of a rose. In short, without your presence: without your coming suddenly, incitingly, to know my life, gust of a rosebush, wheat of wind: since then I am because you are, since then you are, I am, we are, and through love I will be, you will be, we will be.

  Pablo Neruda

  Flower, Moving, Light

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• That Arthur has not always existed seems odd to me. Like the wind on the moors and the wild winter stars, surely he has always lived . . . and always will.

  Stephen R. Lawhead

  Stars, Winter, Odd

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• My thoughts took frantic flight, wanting to escape this prison, and seek out the wind so it could fan my hair and sting my skin, and make me feel alive again.

  Virginia C. Andrews

  Hair, Skins, Fans

  Virginia C. Andrews (2004). “Flowers in the Attic”

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• He who trades his identity for money will one day wind up with neither.

  Jim Goad

  One Day, Identity, Trade

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• Somewhere you are holding the person I love," the boy said. "So, when I look out over your sands, I am also looking at her. I want to return to her, and I need your help so that I can turn myself into the wind.

  Paulo Coelho

  Boys, Needs, Looks

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• I saw the spiders marching through the air, Swimming from tree to tree that mildewed day In latter August when the hay Came creaking to the barn. But where The wind is westerly, Where gnarled November makes the spiders fly Into the apparitions of the sky, They purpose nothing but their ease and die Urgently beating east to sunrise and the sea.

  Robert Lowell

  Swimming, Air, August

  Poems 1938-1949 (1950) "Mr Edwards and the Spider"

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• Think of Shakespeare and Melville and you think of thunder, lightning, wind. They all knew the joy of creating in large or small forms, on unlimited or restricted canvases. These are the children of the gods.

  Ray Bradbury

  Children, Thinking, Creating

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• And over it all, the butterflies swarmed, like a million yellow-pettalled flowers dancing on swirling winds.

  Steven Erikson

  Flower, Butterfly, Yellow

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• All true stories begin and end in a cemetery" - The Shadow of the Wind

  Carlos Ruiz Zafon

  Shadow, Stories, Ends

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• He knew what the wind was doing to them, where it was taking them, to all the secret places that were never so secret again in life.

  Ray Bradbury

  Secret Places, Secret

  Ray Bradbury (2013). “Something Wicked This Way Comes”, p.17, Harper Collins

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• At times I believed that the last page of my book and the last page of my life were one and the same, that when my book ended I'd end, a great wind would sweep through my rooms carrying the pages away, and when the air cleared of all those fluttering white sheets the room would be silent, the chair where I sat empty.

  Nicole Krauss

  Book, Writing, White

  Nicole Krauss (2006). “The History of Love: A Novel”, p.9, W. W. Norton & Company

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• She had taken to wondering lately, during these swift-counted years, what had been done with all those wasted summer days; how could she have spent them so wantonly? I am foolish, she told herself early every summer, I am very foolish; I am grown up now and know the values of things. Nothing is ever really wasted, she believed sensibly, even one's childhood, and then each year, one summer morning, the warm wind would come down the city street where she walked and she would be touched with the little cold thought: I have let more time go by.

  Shirley Jackson

  Summer, Morning, Taken

  Shirley Jackson (2006). “The Haunting of Hill House”, p.26, Penguin

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• If you run into a psychic wall face-first, do you wind up with psychic bruises? -Clary, pg.239-

  Cassandra Clare

  Running, Wall, Psychics

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• Something is happening. I sense a change in the wind…a mutual understanding of each other. I haven’t felt this way in forever.

  Simone Elkeles

  Forever, Understanding, Way

  Simone Elkeles (2011). “Perfect Chemistry”, p.157, Simon and Schuster

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• As we trudge back through the woods, we reach a boulder, and both Gale and I turn our heads in the same direction, like a pair of dogs catching a scent on the wind. Cressida notices and asks what lies that way. We admit, without acknowledging each other, it's our old hunting rendez-vous place. She wants to see it, even after we tell her it's nothing really. Nothing but a place where I was happy, I think.

  Suzanne Collins

  Dog, Lying, Thinking

  Suzanne Collins (2010). “Mockingjay (The Hunger Games, Book 3)”, p.127, Scholastic Inc.

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• I'm not so sure about this wind and howling darkness business," Jace went on, "smells more like landfill to me. You sure you're not from Staten Island?

  Cassandra Clare

  Islands, Smell, Darkness

  Cassandra Clare (2010). “Cassandra Clare: The Mortal Instrument Series (3 books): City of Bones; City of Ashes; City of Glass”, p.309, Simon and Schuster

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• I could hear the icy winds of Sweden, but he didn't seem to feel the chill.

  Janet Fitch

  Icy, Sweden, Chill

  Janet Fitch (2013). “White Oleander”, p.13, Hachette UK

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• If it winds up earlier, you should have a movie picked out. This is assuming she isn’t sending you the ‘let’s go back to my place’ signals. In that case—” “Don’t go there, Bob. Let’s just not go there.

  Nora Roberts

  Should Have, Bob, Assuming

  Nora Roberts (2009). “Vision In White: Number 1 in series”, p.93, Hachette UK

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• I believe one would write better if the climate were bad. If there were a lot of wind and storms for example.

  Aldous Huxley

  Believe, Writing, Storm

  Peter Edgerly Firchow, Aldous Huxley (1984). “The end of Utopia: a study of Aldous Huxley's Brave new world”, Bucknell Univ Pr

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• Listen to the trees as they sway in the wind. Their leaves are telling secrets. Their bark sings songs of olden days as it grows around the trunks. And their roots give names to all things. Their language has been lost. But not the gestures.

  Vera Nazarian

  Inspirational, Song, Names

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• Every ending is arbitrary, because the end is where you write The end. A period, a dot of punctuation, a point of stasis. A pinprick in the paper: you could put your eye to it and see through, to the other side, to the beginning of something else. Or, as Tony says to her students, Time is not a solid, like wood, but a fluid, like water or the wind. It doesn't come neatly cut into even-sized length, into decades and centuries. Nevertheless, for our purposes we have to pretend it does. The end of any history is a lie in which we all agree to conspire.

  Margaret Atwood

  Lying, Eye, Writing

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• She was as forthright and simple as the winds that blew over Tara and the yellow river that wound around it.

  Margaret Mitchell

  Simple, Rivers, Yellow

  Margaret Mitchell (2016). “Gone with the Wind”, p.16, Hamilton Books

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• as a bird swoops down on it's prey, and assumes this land bound wretch into heaven, so did romeo steal her lips before they fled him again. suspended somewhere between cherubs and devils, his quarry ceased to buck, and he spread his wings wide and let the rising wind carry them off across the sky, until even the predator himself had lost every hope of returning home. within that one embrace, [he] became aware of a feeling of certainty he had not thought possible for anyone - even the virtuous. with her in his arms, all other women, past, present, and future, simply ceased to exist.

  Anne Fortier

  Home, Past, Land

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