Puddles Quotes (page 2)
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Nobody'd be different. The only thing that would be different would be you. Not that you'd be so much older or anything. It wouldn't be that, exactly. You'd just be different, that's all. You'd have an overcoat on this time. Or the kid that was your partner in line the last time had got scarlet fever and you'd have a new partner. Or you'd have a substitute taking the class, instead of Miss Aigletinger. Or you'd heard your mother and father having a terrific fight in the bathroom. Or you'd...
J. D. Salinger
The voice of the nickly reflection of the moon was not as deep as you might expect. It was a singer’s voice, though, a tenor, one that loved itself without reservation.
“I feel time like you dream. Your dreams are jumbled. You can’t remember the order of your dreams, and when you recall them, the memories bend. Faces change. It’s all in puddles and ripples. That’s what time is for me.
Dave Eggers
Forty feet long sixty feet high hotel. Covered with old gray for buzzing flies. Eye like mango flowing orange pus. Ears Durga people vomiting in their sleep. Got huge legs a dozen buses move inside Calcutta. Swallowing mouthfuls of dead rats. Mangy dogs bark out of a thousand breasts. Garbage pouring from its ass behind alleys. Always pissing yellow Hooghly water. Bellybutton melted Chinatown brown puddles. Coughing lungs Sound going down the sewer. Nose smell a big gray Bidi. Heart bumping...
Allen Ginsberg
The fruition of the year had come and the night should have been fine with a moon in the sky and the crisp sharp promise of frost in the air, but it wasn't that way. It rained and little puddles of water shone under the street lamps on Main Street. In the woods in the darkness beyond the Fair Ground water dripped from the black trees.
Sherwood Anderson
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
There are times, however, and this is one of them, when even being right feels wrong. What do you say, for instance, about a generation that has been taught that rain is poison and sex is death? If making love might be fatal and if a cool spring breeze on any summer afternoon can turn a crystal blue lake into a puddle of black poison right in front of your eyes, there is not much left except TV and relentless masturbation. It's a strange world. Some people get rich and others eat shit and die.
Hunter S. Thompson
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