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Fog Quotes
over, and the Lord Chancellor sitting in Lincoln’s Inn
Hall. Implacable November weather. As much mud in the
streets as if the waters had but newly retired from
the face of the earth, and it would not be wonderful
to meet a Megalosaurus, forty feet long or so,
waddling like an elephantine lizard up Holborn Hill.
Smoke lowering down from chimney-pots, making a soft
black drizzle, with flakes of soot in it as big as
full-grown snow-flakes — gone into mourning, one might
imagine, for the death of the sun. Dogs,
undistinguishable in mire. Horses, scarcely better;
splashed to their very blinkers. Foot passengers,
jostling one another’s umbrellas in a general
infection of ill-temper, and losing their foot-hold at
street-corners, where tens of thousands of other foot
passengers have been slipping and sliding since the
day broke (if the day ever broke), adding new deposits
to the crust upon crust of mud, sticking at those
points tenaciously to the pavement, and accumulating
at compound interest.
Fog everywhere. Fog up the river, where it flows among
green aits and meadows; fog down the river, where it
rolls defiled among the tiers of shipping and the
waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city. Fog
on the Essex marshes, fog on the Kentish heights. Fog
creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs; fog lying
out on the yards, and hovering in the rigging of great
ships; fog drooping on the gunwales of barges and
small boats. Fog in the eyes and throats of ancient
Greenwich pensioners, wheezing by the firesides of
their wards; fog in the stem and bowl of the afternoon
pipe of the wrathful skipper, down in his close cabin;
fog cruelly pinching the toes and fingers of his
shivering little ’prentice boy on deck. Chance people
on the bridges peeping over the parapets into a nether
sky of fog, with fog all round them, as if they were
up in a balloon, and hanging in the misty clouds.
Gas looming through the fog in divers places in the
streets, much as the sun may, from the spongey fields,
be seen to loom by husbandman and ploughboy. Most of
the shops lighted two hours before their time — as the
gas seems to know, for it has a haggard and unwilling
look.
The raw afternoon is rawest, and the dense fog is
densest, and the muddy streets are muddiest near that
leaden-headed old obstruction, appropriate ornament
for the threshold of a leaden-headed old corporation,
Temple Bar. And hard by Temple Bar, in Lincoln’s Inn
Hall, at the very heart of the fog, sits the Lord High
Chancellor in his High Court of Chancery.”
―
Bleak
House
More
along and stood in the sound of the ocean on a cold sunless
shore and said, “We need a voice to call across the water,
to warn ships; I’ll make one. I’ll make a voice like all of
time and all of the fog that ever was; I’ll make a voice
that is like an empty bed beside you all night long, and
like an empty house when you open the door, and like trees
in autumn with no leaves. A sound like the birds flying
south, crying, and a sound like November wind and the sea on
the hard, cold shore. I’ll make a sound that’s so alone that
no one can miss it, that whoever hears it will weep in their
souls, and hearths will seem warmer, and being inside will
seem better to all who hear it in the distant towns. I’ll
make me a sound and an apparatus and they’ll call it a Fog
Horn and whoever hears it will know the sadness of eternity
and the briefness of life.”
The Fog Horn blew.”
― The
Fog Horn
curled and creamed, almost without sound, like a thought
trying to form inself on the edge of consciousness.”
― The
Big Sleep
mountains vanish into fog
and i vanish into poetry.”
― A
Thousand Flamingos
purest philosophies. Ada had worked out her own little
system. Hardly a week had elapsed since Van’s arrival when
he was found worthy of being initiated in her web of wisdom.
An individual’s life consisted of certain classified things:
“real things” which were unfrequent and priceless, simply
“things” which formed the routine stuff of life; and “ghost
things,” also called “fogs,” such as fever, toothache,
dreadful disappointments, and death. Three or more things
occurring at the same time formed a “tower,” or, if they
came in immediate succession, they made a “bridge.” “Real
towers” and “real bridges” were the joys of life, and when
the towers came in a series, one experienced supreme
rapture; it almost never happened, though. In some
circumstances, in a certain light, a neutral “thing” might
look or even actually become “real” or else, conversely, it
might coagulate into a fetid “fog.” When the joy and the
joyless happened to be intermixed, simultaneously or along
the ramp of duration, one was confronted with “ruined
towers” and “broken bridges.”
― Ada,
or Ardor: A Family Chronicle
and the streets were very cold; for summer was in England.”
― The
Light That Failed [Illustrated]
of light, and sometimes voices.”
― Plain
Kate
mirror — its presence incites you to wipe the mirror, and
see yourself clearly again.”
― The
Perpetual Calendar of Inspiration
that the sun had grown weaker. Beautiful and clear as it had
been, the morning (as the day approached the completion of
its first half) was becoming damp and misty. Heavy clouds
moved from the north and were invading the top of the
mountain, covering it with a light brume. It seemed to be
fog, and perhaps fog was also rising from the ground, but at
that altitude it was difficult to distinguish the mists that
rose from below and those that come down from above. It was
becoming hard to discern the bulk of the more distant
buildings.”
― The
Name of the Rose
the fog.”
― Waiting
for Normal
may have regretted the departing summer, having sighed over
the vanished strawberries and all that they signified. Now,
however, we look forward almost eagerly to winter’s
approach. We forget the fogs, the slush, the sore throats an
the price of coal, we think only of long evenings by
lamplight, of the books which we are really going to read
this time, of the bright shop windows and the keen edge of
the early frosts.”
― Greenery
Street
and Kate staggered over every stone and stumbled in every
puddle, but she pushed on as fast as she could.”
― Plain
Kate
everything disappears; everything but fog! When love invades
the minds, everything disappears; everything but love!”
―
in itself, don’t wait for the fog to disperse! Instead of
waiting for something to happen in this short life, do
something immediately! Enter the fog!”
―
is hazy, the soft light of a scarf over a lamp.”
― The
Luminous Sea
What wonders are hidden in it, the only way to see them is
to dive into the fog!”
―
fog was heavy and dark. Animate London, with smarting eyes
and irritated lungs, was blinking, wheezing, and choking;
inanimate London was a sooty spectre, divided in purpose
between being visible and invisible, and so being wholly
neither.”
― Our
Mutual Friend
and foggy, blurring spaces between the trees and blanketing
all of Ellingham in a milky mist. Dottie decided that the
weather lent itself to a mystery. Sherlock Holmes would be
perfect.”
― Truly
Devious
fog of educated greed.”
―
way in the fog of greed.”
―
enlightenment.”
―
your own real truth…so follow your heart down your path
through the fog, muting all the noise, and walk out into the
meaningful light of the silent truth”
― Bodhi
Smith Impressionist Photography
clearing, a heavy layer of fog filled the valley like a
moist blanket. The trees grew into amorphous shapes,
mountains gone.
Ash stopped dead in his tracks. He stared into the forest
with wide eyes. “Whoa! D’you see that?!”
Vale jerked to a stop. “What? Where?!”
“There in the trees.” He pointed into the forest to where
the rainy undergrowth grew thick with a hazy veil of
grey-white mist. “The haze.”
“What about it?”
“Looks like game lag. But like… real lag. Real life lag.”
Ash grinned at her, his brown eyes sparkling. “Like the
forest is supposed to be there, but it’s not totally loaded
by the computer yet.”
“That’s going to be trouble.”
“Why?”
Vale nodded to where Ash knew the mountaintops should be,
but were no longer visible, caught in an otherworldly lag.
“It means we can’t see the mountains.”
“So?”
“So we can’t see where we are going anymore.”
Ash frowned. “Er… yeah.”
“C’mon. Let’s keep walking.”
― Switchback
the art of erasing things without actually erasing them!”
―
sea like blue neon.”
― The
Shipping News
your heart – hold on!”
― Spiels
of a Minuteman
landmarks. The mountains they’d walked into were gone, a
hazy gray ceiling of storm clouds in their place. It gave
him the unsettling feeling of being caught inside a box. Ash
turned and looked back the other direction. His attention
caught on the forked top of a pine tree and he frowned. What
the hell…? That looks like the same tree we passed fifteen
minutes ago. It felt for a moment like he was in a poorly
designed game and had just come across a repeating
landscape. His gaze dropped down to the path where they’d
just passed. His stomach churned uneasily. The trail was a
faded smudge, the line of it almost too faint to follow in
the gathering darkness, but there was a small outcrop of
rocks in the trees that also looked familiar.
His attention jumped back to the pronged top of the
branches. “What the…?”
― Switchback
dreads, Inc.
—
Daisy Pettles, Author
Shady Hoosier Detective Agency Series
FREE Audiobook PODCAST – Ghost Busting Mystery
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Ghost Busting Mystery Book 1
Baby Daddy Mystery Book 2
Chickenlandia Mystery Book 3
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