Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Bogs. Share them with your friends on social media platforms like Facebook, Twitter, or your personal blogs, and let the world be inspired by their powerful messages. Here are the Top 100 Bogs Quotes And Sayings by 96 Authors including Lorelei James,Annie Proulx,John Wyndham,Brian D'ambrosio,Arthur Eddington for you to enjoy and share.

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Moorcroft with a small pasture
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Wet, wet, the interior of the island, they said, bog and marsh, rivers and chains of ponds alive with metal-throated birds. The ships scraped on around the points. And the lookout saw shapes of caribou folding into fog.
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A sort of botanical glory-hole
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In these shallow arroyos
and grease-covered hills,
blowing dust zones,
the Christmas spirit of cotton bales,
fried in butter
and sweeping heat,
life,
spaciously allotted.
Catching our breath,
smiling in silence,
with the lowering sun in our faces.
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We have found a strange footprint on the shores of the unknown.
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The nastiest things they saw were the cobwebs: dark dense cobwebs with threads extraordinarily thick, often stretched from tree to tree, or tangled in the lower branches on either side of them.
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fiddlesticks" and
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chooks. You cannot go away and leave
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I heard word
Of bellied sailcloth,
Creak of oars,
And gold in Eastland.
Then I smelled
A smell remembered:
Salt of spray
And black-pitched boat's keel.
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Hymies." And "Hymietown.
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No more coals to Newcastle, no more Hoares to Paris.
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Be careful. The conditions are treacherous with mud-sucking tentacles pulling shoes and socks into the murky bottom while smearing grime on those who passed by.
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Thinking back ( ... ) all that comes to mind for me is a swamp - a deep, sticky bog that feels as if it's going to suck off my shoe each time I take a step. I walk through the mud, exhausted. In front of me, behind me, I can see nothing but the endless darkness of a swamp.
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Slugs crawl and crawl over our cabbages, like the world's slander over a good name. You may kill them, it is true; but there is the slime.
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The Federal Department of Odds and Ends: sweepus underum carpetae.
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O'er many a frozen, many a fiery Alp, Rocks, caves, lakes, fens, bogs, dens, and shades of death.
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What's feeding in Derry? What's feeding on Derry?
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Nighttown, because the Pit's inverted, and the bottom of its bowl touches the sky, the sky that Nighttown never sees, sweating under its own firmament of acrylic resin, up where the Lo Teks crouch in the dark like gargoyles,
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Absorbing and haunting! BOGEYMAN spills creepily across the page with Steve Jackson's hellacious verve and insight, reminding us there are few better explorers of the American berserk.
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lying on "mattress graves.
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Spirals.... this town is contaminated with spirals.
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To put it simply: There was no bunk about Bogie. He was a man.
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His friend had the capacity to refer to anything from majestic ghost gum forest in the Snowy Mountains to the sticky, dense rainforest of North Queensland as 'Bush'. If it wasn't a desert, a town or a city, then to Gary it was 'the Bush'.
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A flat black bug, that is London.
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those ghouls who enter into a macabre dance with pot-bellied netas.
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Like many toilets in Goa, it was nothing more than a smooth, steep slope behind the squatting keyhole. Waste matter rolled down the slope to a narrow lane. Wild, hairy, black Goan pigs roamed the lanes, eating the waste.
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Were trying to dig up the roots of that big oak stump near the
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In the draws the smoke coming off the ground like mist and the thin black trees burning on the slopes like heathen candles.
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At the city gates a corpse or two hung, moldering, from the municipal gallows. Within the walls, there were the usual dirty streets, the customary gamut of smells, from wood smoke to excrement, from geese to incense, from baking bread to horses, swine and unwashed humanity. Peasants,
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Foul, misbegotten mound of walking donkey dung!
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I have seen these marshes a thousand times, yet each time they're new. It's wrong to call them benign. You could just as well call them cruel and senseless, they are all of those things, but the reality of them overwhelms halfway conceptions.
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I 'uz mos' to de foot er de islan' b'fo' I found' a good place. I went into de woods en jedged I wouldn' fool wid raffs no mo', long as dey move de lantern roun' so. I had my pipe en a plug er dog-leg, en some matches in my cap, en dey warn't wet, so I 'uz all right.
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The thick plottens.
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In the depths of the moor, the peat may be seen riven like floes of ice, and the rifts are sometimes twelve to fourteen feet deep, cut through black vegetable matter, the product of decay of plants through countless generations.
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The fog between the trees of ghosts who lift suns.
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The last cobwebs
of fog in the
black firtrees are flakes
of white ash in the world's hearth.
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A bulger of a place it is. The number of the ships beat me all hollow, and looked for all the world like a big clearing in the West, with the dead trees all standing.
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Worldwide, enormous areas of peatland are still being lost to agricultural development, drainage schemes, overgrazing, and exploitation-based infrastructure development projects such as roads, electricity pylons, telephone masts and gas pipelines.
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Sand choked the stainless steel gutters of concentric streets below dark skies full of stars like beds of cold jewels. And through it all, a dying wind of change blew, bringing with it the cinnamon smell of late October.
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What kind of maggot grows in the corpse of a day?
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Every morning there were silver snail trails crisscrossing the hall. There were cobwebs like soft clouds and pepperings of mold at the windowsills. The moor was coming inside.
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Stops at the end of the road collected Clyde Lidgards like dams collected silt.
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My woods...the young fir balsams like a place
Where houses all are churches and have spires.
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Flavius's foot catches on a metal grate over a circular opening in the floor, and my stomach contracts when I think of why a room would need a drain. The stains of human misery that must have been hosed off these white tiles ...
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Like black hulks the shadows of the great trees ride at anchor on the billowy sea of grass.
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bhole whose form no man might see.
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The large black slugs ... come out at dusk. Enormous slugs. As big as crocodiles. So huge we need a gun to shoot them. And by the end of the summer, if they go on growing, we shall have to go out in pairs together for protection.
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For a few heady weeks of the year the steppe in a binge throws out a wilderness of flowers that tangle your hooves and confuse your horse.
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reeking of sewage and rotting corpses, burned-out shells of houses, feral dogs
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We must not look at goblin men, We must not buy their fruits: Who knows upon what soil they fed Their hungry thirsty roots?
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Where are the coconut trees bowing allegiance to the wind, the wide open spaces, the verdant green fields?
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jokes about arks. The
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The most I have to fear while hiking in Warwickshire and Worcestershire, the two historic British counties closest to my city home in Birmingham, is whether or not the mud awaiting me in the narrow lanes ahead is deep enough to foul my socks.
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A splendour of miscellaneous spirits.
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I close my eyes and can see men drawing lines in the dust. America pushes through the membrane of mist and smoke, and I'm a small boy again in Bogalusa.
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On the sidewalk, dead leaves. Or burned pages from an old Gaffiot dictionary. It's the neighborhood of colleges and convents.
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Inhabited by those who died in wickness,
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Caddy smelled like trees.
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piece of Turkey carpet
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Toronto's already ass-deep in cockroaches and conservatives; what's one more lower life-form?
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happy hunting-grounds
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A country of long shadows on county cricket grounds, warm beer, green suburbs, dog lovers, and old maids cycling to holy communion through the morning mist.
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Did you ever go to a place ... I think it was called Norway?" "No," said Arthur, "no, I didn't." "Pity," said Slartibartfast, "that was one of mine. Won an award, you know. Lovely crinkly edges. I was most upset to hear of its destruction.
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Trying to find solace in the remainingbr />parks and lakes.br />Now we're forced to get away,br />take trips to the realbr />places. br />The forest.br />The ocean.
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Where shadows dim with shadows mate,
in caverns deep and dark.
Where old books dream of bygone days,
when they were wood and bark ...
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The vegetation has crawled mile for mile towards the towns. It is waiting. When the town dies, the Vegetation will invade it, it will clamber over the stones, it will grip them, search them, burst them open with its long black pincers; it will bind the holes and hang its green paws everywhere.
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my digs look as if they've been dug
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The sea, the snotgreen sea, the scrotumtightening sea.
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And blue-lung'd combers lumbered to the kill.
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There are high places that don't invite us, sharp shapes, glacier-scraped faces, whole ranges whose given names slip off. Any such relation as we try to make refuses to take ... I'm giddy with thinking where thinking can't stick.
No Names
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You have sea, you have boat, you have oars, and then why on earth you are rotting in the port?
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The buildings of the great city of Placeholder sprawled either side of the dark crack of the river like boils on buttocks. There
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A wilderness of gilt, gleaming in the slant from the dust-furred windows: gilded cupids, gilded commodes and torchieres, and
undercutting the old-wood smell
the reek of turpentine, oil paint, and varnish.
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This book is about the ecosystem and inhabitants of the new United States, one that I sometimes call Frackistan. To trace its emergence, I will begin deep underground and follow the path of the hydrocarbon up and out of the rocks.
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In every great city, with all its gleaming walls and massive libraries, with all the shimmering fountains and sculptured gardens, there is a superfluity of dung that must be carted out.
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up yonder in the guzzling Germans' land,
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Like piles of dry wood with red-hot coals underneath.
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Scotland: That garret of the earth - that knuckle-end of England - that land of Calvin, oatcakes, and sulfur.
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Discs of umbrellas poured over suburban terraces with the smooth round ebullience of a Chopin waltz. They sat in the distance under the lugubrious dripping elms, elms like maps of Europe, elms frayed at the end like bits of chartreuse wool, elms heavy and bunchy as sour grapes.
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There are fairies at the bottom of our garden.
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Seattle's Hooverville Northwest of downtown, in the old Scandinavian neighborhood of Ballard, tugboats belching plumes of black smoke nosed long rafts of logs into the
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My feet are wet," said Mr. Dreary.
"You lack the proper gear," I said. We teetered along a trickle of land that wound between water and mud. "Here in the swamp, even the swans wear rubber boots.
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Bulgy Bears," said
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Trackers and hunters sworn to deepwood with clan names like Forrester and Woods, branch and bole.
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Toad's ancestral home, won back by matchless valour, consummate strategy, and a proper handling of sticks.
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Trying to find solace in the remaining
parks and lakes.
Now we're forced to get away,
take trips to the real
places.
The forest.
The ocean.
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Meanwhile Crumb Street, never a place of beauty, that afternoon was at its worst. The fog slopped over its low houses like a bucketful of cold soup over a row of dirty stoves. The
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Leafless trees stand atop slag heaps like skeleton hands shoved up from the underworld.
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Messers Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs
Purveyors of Aids to magical Mischief-Makers
are proud to present
THE MARAUDER'S MAP
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O scaly, slippery, wet, swift, staring wights, What is 't ye do? what life lead? eh, dull goggles? How do ye vary your vile days and nights? How pass your Sundays? Are ye still but joggles In ceaseless wash? Still nought but gapes and bites, And drinks, and stares, diversified with boggles.
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On Harpy's Drive we passed a row of trees, each one with its trunk unnaturally bloated and covered with black fuzz. I had no idea what the fuzz did, but we steered clear of it. The law of navigating post-Shift Atlanta was simple: if you don't know what it is, don't touch it.
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A squalid phantasmagoria of breath
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I lived for a long time under vast porticos
That maritime suns tinted with a thousand fires,
And whose great pillars, straight and majestuous
In the evening made seem like basaltic caves.
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Towns oftener swamp one than carry one out onto the big ocean of life.
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Plough deep while sluggards sleep.
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Nosegays! leave them for the waking,
Throw them earthward where they grew
Dim are such, beside the breaking
Amaranths he looks unto.
Folded eyes see brighter colors than the open ever do.
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Zola smills, smuggles, what is that word? What is it, that word for the happy teeth??
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The perfection of rottenness.
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Old woods and deep. At one time in the world there were woods that no one owned and these were like them.
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Dark furrow lines grid the snow, punctuated by orange abacus beads of pumpkins - now the crows own the field ...