Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Fogging. 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 Fogging Quotes And Sayings by 93 Authors including Jaimal Yogis,Marcel Proust,H.d.,Chuck Jones,Du Fu for you to enjoy and share.
As on many mornings in Marin, there is this sly strip of fog - water in it's most mystical incarnation - slithering over, around, and through the hills, making everything look ancient and unsolved.
Like an entirely cloudless sky when one is going mountaineering ...
That odd infallible sliding-like-crystal air on water that means day's left dawn for morning.
Fog and smog should not be confused and are easily separated by color.
Shine: clear dew aching with light.
Those who generate fog are Wizards of Oz hoping desperately that nobody pulls the curtain to reveal a trembling little writer behind it. This seldom happens. Readers who dare to point out that incomprehensible writing can't be comprehended risk being told that the problem is theirs.
When something large and oncoming passed, the windshield's big rectangle was for a moment incandesced and opaque with water, which the wipers heaved mightily to displace.
Failure is the fog through which we glimpse triumph
The fog that slowly tumbled like great masses of dripping white laundry gradually gave way to sheer curtains and then to isolated tattered scraps.
There was a single ray of sun shining through the window. I got up, went to the cracked glass, and saw that it was both raining and shining outside
a bit of meteorological weirdness whose name no one can seem to agree on. My mom, I kid you not, refers to it as orphan's tears.
The fog was back. It seeped in through the streets, from the cracks around the closed windows behind the trees in the avenue, out of the blue door which opened after they had heard Weber's abrupt bark over the intercom, and out through the keyholes in the doors they passed on the way upstairs.
Clouds veiled the mountains,
When you know something's wrong, but you don't know exactly what it is, the air around you changes.
It's like moving through a delicious fog.
The fog between the trees of ghosts who lift suns.
It was a foggy day in London, and the 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.
When your vision clouds your vision, you see nothing but your vision
The soft droppes of rain perce the hard marble.
Broken glass. It's just like glitter, isn't it?
There it is, fog, atmospheric moisture still uncertain in destination, not quite weather and not altogether mood, yet partaking of both.
The Cloudy Vase
Past time, I threw the flowers out,
washed out the cloudy vase.
How easily the old clearness
leapt, like a practiced tiger, back inside it.
The next morning dawned cool and clear. The early mist had lifted, leaving a thick layer of dew clinging to the hillsides beyond the castle, shimmering in the morning sun like faerie dust sprinkled over a lush bed of emerald.
Like his eyes.
Clarity of vision - what you've been looking at from the wrong angle and not seen at all.
Rain in the graveyard, and the world puddled into blurred reflections.
What the head makes cloudy
the heart makes clear
Rain falls so lightly that it seems indistinguishable from fog.
The final condensation.
When yo hold your nose so high in the air, you can't see where you are going.
When a scene is shrouded in mist, it seems greater, nobler, and heightens the viewers' imaginative powers, increasing expectation -
like a veiled girl. Generally the eye and the imagination are more readily drawn by nebulous distance than by what is perfectly plain for all to see
When it's foggy in the pulpit it's cloudy in the pew.
The smell of perfume left behind. There's not a word for that in English, but Colin knew the French word: sillage.
Blowing,Blowing
The gray slabs
Will lose you
the winds will flick you away
In a whiff
But round your image
there is no fog, and the Earth
can still astonish.
It looks like frozen snot.
Without the fog, London would not be a beautiful city. It is fog that gives it its magnificent amplitude ... its regular and massive blocks become grandiose in that mysterious mantle.
You can get some sense of the immaterial quality of clouds by strolling through fog - which is, after all, nothing more than a cloud that lacks the will to fly.
There's smoke in my iris, but I painted a sunny day on the insides of my eyelids
He who aims to forecast fog, will have mist.
Morning. Vast. Imprecision. Fog has covered everything in gray
absolute. This has lasted. Doubt looms over the mind. Absence
is harder to accept than death.
You're not crazy. And yes, cow farts chase the fog away. The only problem is the smell.
Only darkened trails of rain could paint your face upon a pane ...
the way the dew sparkled as if a careless hand had spilled a thousand translucent gemstones on the lush green blades
We can stick anything into the fog and make it look like a ghost.
At night the fog was thick and full of light, and sometimes voices.
Before us fog, behind us fog, and beneath us a sunken country.
She could hear wisps of fog brushing against the buildings like wet velvet.
There was a mist of moss to ride through and a storm of glass.
It was pouring earlier, great sheets of rain, and now the clouds outside the window are crystal tipped like mountain peaks in the sky, rays emanating downward like an illustration in a children's bible.
The sky's gray and there's mizzle. It's so soft on my skin
it's nothing like rain. It's even softer than the lightest drizzle! Lift my face up, so it can kiss my skin. The Panopticon
Some makeup you put on and feel like you're getting pimples by the hour.
There was a dense fog in my brain,impenetrable to any coherent thought,except the dull obsession of counting the minutes - an aching state of semi concsiousness and numb idiocy.
Darkening sea full of stirred silt and clouds of minute
A tear-drop of green.
In the morning, fog. As it slowly lifted, the expedition set off.
His eyes are a hazy swirl of
gray, like a thick mass of clouds gathering before an impending storm
There were angry clouds building up behind the moutains, black-gray clouds, great clumps of them colored just like cotton balls after Aunt Ruth cleaned off her eye makeup from a big night out, all gunky with mascara and eye shadow. (p 378)
The pictorial battlefield becomes a sea of mud mercifully veiled by the fog of war.
Glass flowers exploding. Slow trail of colors down the sky like stains dispersing in the sea, candescent polyps extinguished in the depths.
Their cold blue light shone through the silver curtains of river mist as streetlamps might glimmer through a smoke-grimed window
A cloud-congested caul that is alternately red, orange, vermilion, purple. Sometimes the clouds break apart in great, slow rafts, letting through beams of innocent yellow sunlight that are bitterly nostalgic for the summer that has gone by.
The faint light all about, quivering and sourceless, refracted in the rain of drifting soot.
Uh, she said maybe your eyes matched the Fog like a synchronous magnetic field?"
"I don't even know what language that is.
But it is growing damp and I must go in. Memory's fog is rising.
...it was both raining and shining outside - a bit of meteorological weirdness whose name no one can seem to agree on.
This was the problem with a walk down memory lane. It was almost always foggy, and one was likely to trip and fall.
Clouds are like boogers hanging on the nostrils of the moon.
The sky was white but deteriorating fast. As always, it was becoming an enormous drop sheet. Blood was bleeding through, and in patches, the clouds were dirty, like footprints in melting snow.
Footprints? you ask.
Well, I wonder whose those could be.
The air had lost its icy feel, but now a thin, sickly mist clung to everything, wrapping around tree trunks and moving over the ground in visible tides.
Was still a fine, persistent drizzle. There was a word in Scots for it - smirr.
Farting, don't think, just fart.
A douche of spray blinded my brother for a moment.
God's word is tailor-made for gray-slush days. It sends a beam of light through the fog. It signals safety when we fear we'll never make it through.
A low line of shore was visible at first on the right between the movement of the waves and fog, but when we came further it was lost sight of, and nothing could be seen but the mist curling in the rigging, and a small circle of foam.
A fine silver rain, like cobwebs falling.
The wind howled about the bus, and the wipers slooshed heavily back and forth across the windshield, smeering the city into a red and yellow neon wetness. It was early afternoon, but it looked like night through the glass
A layer of fine powder coats his skin.
"My lungs are turning to concrete," Rob wheezes, hacking and spitting.
"So are my eyes. How do I always get roped into these things?" Avery coughs and pats Rob's back in sympathy. A poof of dust billows from the contact.
red plastic rain
her tears stain
The morning was so damp and misty
What see you in the horizon's bruised smear
That cannot be blotted out
By your raised hand?
is the answer none of the above
crouched in a hole like a mud-streaked fugitive
everyday a different version of
pouring it away like a water through a sieve
vague as a soft copper pulse of moonlight through blossoming sea coast fog.
I must go in, the fog is rising.
The misty morning crawleth grey from dusk to the reluctant day.
Rain on my head; call it brain storming
Kyle strained his eyes to the horizon while they paddled swiftly through the fog.
The hillside before them blurred, as if a curtain of wind-blown sand rose before it. A churning wind roiled through this strange mist.
Bursts of gold on lavender melting into saffron. It's the time of day when the sky looks like it has been spray-painted by a graffiti artist.
that palpable odor pumped out through the
Who can (make) the muddy water (clear)?
CLOUDS SPILLED DOWN FROM THE SKY AND swamped the streets with a hot mist that made the thermometers on the walls perspire. Halfway through
remove the speck from your
My brother William is a fisherman, and he tells me that when he is in the middle of a fogbound
sea the water is a color for which there is no name.
The timely dew of sleep.
sunbeams everywhere and mist floating like freshly minted
Stained raincoats, I reckon." "And shitpaper stuck to their shoes.
watching trails of mist swirl about your legs, which reminds you of a neighbor's gray kitten that arches its back, puffs up, and rubs against your ankles.
glassblowing?" Noah shook his head. "My
In the land of wisdom, there is no fog in the air, no haze, no blur, no mirage, no smoke; all is seen plainly; the vision is very clean!
Smudge your eyeliner. It creates a smoky effect.
dark, wet sides of the well dropped maybe