473 Quotes About Description

The bar lights glittered on the wet pavement, and jazz wailed out of the open doors of the bars, collinding with the more discordant, driving beats coming from the strip joints, where bored-looking dancers, both male and female, gyrated their hips and humped poles and pretended to be sexy.

Only grand theories can illuminate long-term patterns, structures, systemic contradictions and historical shifts that may be difficult to discern, hard to understand or obscured by countless events of fleeting relevance. Yet, it is those patterns and structures that frame the trajectory of the concrete over time; that is, the making of history.

The child-like, gum-chewing naïveté , the glamour rooted in despair, the self admiring carelessness, the perfected otherness, the wispiness, the shadowy, voyeuristic, vaguely sinister aura, the pale, soft-spoken magical presence, the skin and bones…

The air outside was sharp and the wind fickle, clouds moving across the sky in patters that resembled spilled milk on a kitchen table. That was, if the milk had been left out on the table for three weeks and turned grey.

His voice was a deep and quiet rumble. It made me think of a freshly tuned tractor engine.. He didn't sound illiterate, but he didn't sound educated. In his speech as in so many other things, he was a mystery. Mostly it was his eyes that troubled me - a kind of peaceful absence in them, as if he were floating far, far away.

At last they saw what Strike had felt the need to see: a wide expanse of flat ocean, the color of chalcedony, beneath a periwinkle sky.

These hands are steady enough, but they are large. Had he been a proper pianist - he's dabbled inexpertly - his ten-note span might be of use.

But what captured him was a light in the riverfolding open and openblood, heart and stonesshimmering like the Milky Way.

Sweet wine from Spain and gossip from France; the sun in the windows dimmed, sorrowed prettily as the day declined, until the candles' light was mirrored in the glass. Their dabbling flames were like guesses at a feeling, the hearth's fire like the feeling itself. It was a beautiful pastime she had missed; hours that had stepped light-footed on Emilia's memory and passed on.