Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Dinginess. 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 Dinginess Quotes And Sayings by 97 Authors including William Shakespeare,Dale Mayer,Pope Paul Vi,Comte De Lautreamont,Zadie Smith for you to enjoy and share.
All fancy-sick she is and pale of cheer, with sighs of love, that costs the fresh blood dear.
dazed mind. Early morning rays highlighted the water stains shining through the slap-dash
A dimple on the chin, the devil within.
O Ocean, you remind me somewhat of the bluish marks one sees on the battered backs of cabin boys.
Pulchritude
beauty where you would least suspect it, hidden in a word that looked like it should signify a belch or a skin infection.
His pasty, white wang. Gross.
But the pinkness and whiteness of underskirts and camisoles, the frilliness of foundation garments, the rustle about the bustle and the fuss about the bust.
A grey wrinkled vastness, like the residue of a dream
That the rooms were pitifully furnished, with dirty sheets in
Frightfully pale and perpetually odd
Weariness seemed to settle on him like a coating of dust.
He feels like saying that of course there's lint on Mr. Wiggly, or dust at any rate, or maybe rust; what does she expect, because as she is well aware Mr. Wiggly has been on the shelf for some time.
There is a kind of beauty in imperfection.
Something of a pattern had started to form and it was ugly.
The stains on the mattress. Like dried flower petals. Not recent. Old love; there's no other kind of love in this room now.
Beauty is a word that fades with wrinkles
Oily marks appear on walls / Where pleasure moments hung before
She could feel something unnatural following her every movement as she washed her bountiful Huzza and Wahzoozie" - BATS
Funny how imperfections on the outside mean something splendid beneath.
It's expression was solemn, its complexion muddy.
Dirt is not dirty, but only something in the wrong place.
Life wasn't always easy, and had a way of filing down the sharp corners and rough edges.
The perfection of rottenness.
Noodly: the act of being noodle-like, as in, Vivia drinks one Red Beach and she feels noodly.
The In-Between somehow makes you feel grimy, like all those sights and sounds and sensations and smells have stuck to you, like you've been rolling around in a preschool art class's trash can.
There are some people who leave impressions not so lasting as the imprint of an oar upon the water.
Watching you at work, I was reminded of the young lady of Natchez, whose clothes were all tatters and patches. In alluding to which, she would say, Well, Ah itch, and wherever ah itches, Ah scratches.
Pooley hunched closer to his pint. 'A pox on it all,' said he. 'The Swan packed full of these idiots, old Soap flushed away round the proverbial S-bend and Cowboy Night looming up before us with about as much promise as the coming of Ragnorok!
The skin of everyday appearances stretched over such shamelessness, such consuming explosions of lust.
that weird sour body odor only monsters have, like a skunk that's been living off Mexican food. Grover
Wrinkles and ill-nature together made a woman hideous.
From being used so much, kneaded with sweat and sighs, the air in the room had begun to turn to mud.
Labor's face is wrinkled with the wind, and swarthy with the sun.
Smooth out with wine the worries of a wrinkled brow.
Cleanliness is the scourge of art.
Her ruddy brown skin had the texture of pebbled linoleum.
Some touch of Nature's genial glow.
Boston - wrinkled, spindly-legged, depleted of nearly all her spiritual and cutaneous oils, provincial, self-esteeming - has gone on spending and spending her inflated bills of pure reputation, decade after decade.
Dirty, stained, withered, broken things seem beautiful to me.
But why diminish your soul being run-of-the-mill at something? Mediocrity: now there is ugliness for you. Mediocrity's a hairball coughed up on the Persian carpet of Creation.
smell its acrid horsehair upholstery and stale flour,
Why did I feel warmed by imperfections, discomfort, and patina?
Because intense living leaves scars, and I could not find such scars anywhere in America. Inner scars, softened, human wear and tear.
Resist the dimples. Do not look at the dimples. They are defects. Shit, must ignore the dents.
The "down and dirty
It is the horrible texture of a fabric that should be woven of ships' cables and hawsers. A Polar wind blows through it, and birds of prey hover over it.
She's got feet like boats, whiskers like an American, and her undies are filthy.
How earthy old people become
moldy as the grave! Their wisdom smacks of the earth. There is no foretaste of immortality in it. They remind me of earthworms and mole crickets.
A hot city, slaked out on the banks of the Mississippi, with too much of its muscle showing to be a dignified city.
Eyes that droop like summer flowers.
That admiration of the 'neat but not gaudy,' which is commonly reported to have influenced the devil when he painted his tail pea green.
It is not dirt but the fear of dirt which is the sign of man's degeneration, and it is dangerous to judge a man's physical and moral sanity by outside standards.
The worst deformities, the foulest stains, disfiguring and blackening all the rest, are the very parts of Fijian nature which, while the most strongly characteristic, are such that may only be hurriedly mentioned, dimly hinted at, or passed by altogether in silence.
She was like a crinkled poppy; with the desire to drink dry dust.
Dullness it is that perverts and corrups the spirit but it is always possible to look past the dullness, and see the bright, shining heart of things
The neighborhood is pretty rough." I rubbed the hair on the back of my neck feeling a little ashamed about that. We tried to keep it as clean as we could but we weren't saints.
"I'm starting to gather that. Thanks, Clay. Night."
"Night."
"You got it bad man.
Stained raincoats, I reckon." "And shitpaper stuck to their shoes.
Yesterday's dirt and mistakes have moved through me. I am shiny and pink inside, clean. Empty is good. Empty is strong.
The itch of scribbling.
The house stank; a stench all its own pervaded every corner. It was a threnody in the key of Cat minor, with a ground-bass of Old Dog, and modulations of old people, waning lives, and relinquished hopes.
The flies buzzed in answer above the dirty water standing in the washbasin, in which floated a solitary black hair. It, too, was like life
and as meaningless.
Underneath this flabby exterior is an enormous lack of character.
A howling corner in the winter time, a dusty corner in the summer time, an undesirable corner at the best of times.
Does Raggedy Ann have a cotton crotch?
The water closet's rusting and slightly broken porcelain throne betrayed its purported grandeur. The air was dank and unrecycled. The motel room stunk of body odor because all of the windows were tightly nailed shut and never opened, even though that was in violation of municipal ordinances.
Terplash, & what difference make! One little white spark of light! Hair woven hands Penelope seaboat smeller
Is Virgin you trying to fathom me Tiresome old sea, aint you sick & tired of all of this merde? this incessant boom boom & sand walk
Dust billowed around us, creeping under our loose-tied handkerchiefs and into our noses and mouths. It was fine and silty, red as ochre or the brush-tailed fox,
Impression - I was certain of it. I was just telling myself that, since I was impressed, there had to be some impression in it ... and what freedom, what ease of workmanship! Wallpaper in its embryonic state is more finished than that seascape.
an aching hollowness in the bosom, a dark cold speck at the heart, an obscure and boding sense of something that must be kept out of sight of the conscience;
Mortification. I'm draped in it. Painted in it. Buried in it.
Fancy makes me shudder to-night, when all is so black and solemn - " "Let us shudder too. We may know what it is." "It will seem nothing to you.
Gammy used to say, 'Too much scrubbing takes the life right out of things.'
Nothing teems But hateful docks, rough thistles, kecksies, burs, Losing both beauty and utility.
There had been something about the pop of the champagne cork, the naughtiness of it.
...my mom always telling me that a man with clean nails hides his dirt on the inside.
Swathed in an old tweed coat on which the damp had settled like a thousand tiny pearls.
Aggle flabble kabble . . . snurp?
Something ignoble, loathsome, undignified attends all associations between people and has been transferred to all objects, dwelling, tools, even the landscape itself.
a furtive groove
...our familiar features rinsed in weird adulthood.
Cracked. The tub was as old as God and pitted. There
Dirt is a great respecter of persons; it lets you alone when you are well dressed, but as soon as your collar is gone it flies towards you from all directions.
That's why Twinkle likes the place so much, Scott thought, looking around at the faded wood veneer tables, and the faded souls drinking at them. Misery was soaked through the place like the old beer soaked through its carpets.
Ll dark hair and blue smudges in the moonlight.
She had fouled off of the curves that life had thrown at her.
The whitewash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor, The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door; The chest, contriv'd a double debt to pay,- A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day.
My streets, my cistern. My old house. Its beams, floorboards and staircase creaked slightly, almost imperceptibly, with a dry, uniform, almost constant cracking sound. What's wrong? Where does it hurt? It seemed to be complaining of aches in its bones, in its centuries-old joints.
A light white, a disgras, an ink spot, a rosy charm.
When a New Yorker looks like he has a suntan, it's probably rust.
There is rust in my mouth,the stain of an old kiss.
Er smile, which was her pretty feature, was never so pretty as when her sprightly phrase had a scratch lurking in it.
Dullness is the enemy.
I don't like dirt, because nothing is dirtier. Except politics.
Your kind has a superstitious terror of things ugly and broken; you fear that their condition may somehow infect you.
The gray silence, the gray waves, the gray wastes of the sea.
It's impossible to explain to a Yankee what 'tacky' is. They simply have no word for it up north, but my God, do they ever need one.
The world is full of holes and uneven seams, wrinkled places that you can't make smooth, no matter how hard you try.
To all apparent beauties blind, each blemish strikes an envious mind.
Wrinkles on the brow are the imprints of exploits.
Filth and vermin though they shock the over-nice are imperfections of the flesh closely related in the just imagination of the poet to excessive cleanliness.
Rubbish!" screamed a fat, elderly woman, in Richard's ear, as he passed her malodorous stall. "Junk!" She continued. "Garbage! Trash! Offal! Debris! Come and get it! Nothing whole or undamaged! Crap, tripe, and useless piles of shit. You know you want it.