Charcoal Quotes
-
-
-
Her nerves gathered together so quickly, Gennie nearly dropped the five pounds of briquettes on the ground. When she'd finished being exasperated with herself, she laughed and poured a neat pile of charcoal into the barbecue pit. So this was the coolly sophisticated Genvieve Grandeau, she thought wryly; established member of the art world and genteel New Orleans society, about to drop five pounds of charcoal on her toes because a rude man was going to have dinner with her. How the mighty have...
Nora Roberts
There is no error more common than that of thinking that those who are the causes or occasions of great tragedies share in the feelings suitable to the tragic mood: no error more fatal than expecting it of them. The martyr in his 'shirt of flame' may be looking on the face of God, but to him who is piling the faggots or loosening the logs for the blast the whole scene is no more than the slaying of an ox is to the butcher, or the felling of a tree to the charcoal burner in the forest, or the...
Oscar Wilde
The rockets set the bony meadows afire, turned rock to lava, turned wood to charcoal, transmuted water to steam, made sand and silica into green glass which lay like shattered mirrors reflecting the invasion, all about. The rockets came like drums, beating in the night. The rockets came like locusts, swarming and settling in blooms of rosy smoke.
Ray Bradbury
As far as I can recall, the initial shiver of inspiration [for Lolita] was somehow prompted by a newspaper story about an ape in the Jardin des Plantes, who, after months of coaxing by a scientist, produced the first drawing ever charcoaled by an animal: this sketch showed the bars of the poor creature's cage.
Vladimir Nabokov
February. Boris Pasternak. It's February. Get ink. Weep. Write the heart out about it, sing. Another song of February. While raucous slush burns black with spring. Six grivnas* for a buggy ride. Past booming bells, on screaming gears, Out to a place where drizzles fall. Louder than any ink or tears. Where like a flock of charcoal pears, A thousand blackbirds, ripped awry. From trees to puddles, knock dry grief. Into the deep end of the eye. A thaw patch blackens underfoot. The wind is gutted...
Boris Pasternak
The Deliverator belongs to an elite order, a hallow subcategory. He's got esprit up to here. Right now, he is preparing to carry out his third mission of the night. His uniform is black as activated charcoal, filtering the very light out of the air. A bullet will bounce off its arachnofiber weave like a wren hitting a patio door, but excess perspiration wafts through it like a breeze through a freshly napalmed forest. Where his body has bony extremities, the suit has sintered armorgel: feels...
Neal Stephenson
I'd better light the charcoal," Gennie said after a moment."I didn't ask before," Grant began as they started down the pier. "But do you know how to cook on one of those things?"My dear Mr. Campbell," Gennie said in a fluid drawl, "you appear to have several misconceptions about southern women. I can cook on a hot rock."And wash shirts in a fast stream."Every bit as well as you could," Gennie tossed back. "You might have some advantage on me in mechanical areas, but I'd say we're about even...
Nora Roberts
Sometimes when she is able to spend the night with him they are wakened by the three minarets of the city beginning their prayers before dawn. He walks with her through the indigo markets that lie between South Cairo and her home. The beautiful songs of faith enter the air like arrows, one minaret answering another, as if passing on a rumor of the two of them as they walk through the cold morning air, the smell of charcoal and hemp already making the air profound. Sinners in a holy city.
Michael Ondaatje
February. Get ink, shed tears. Write of it, sob your heart out, sing, While torrential slush that roars. Burns in the blackness of the spring. Go hire a buggy. For six grivnas, Race through the noice of bells and wheels. To where the ink and all you grieving. Are muffled when the rainshower falls. To where, like pears burnt black as charcoal, A myriad rooks, plucked from the trees, Fall down into the puddles, hurl. Dry sadness deep into the eyes. Below, the wet black earth shows through, With...
Boris Pasternak