A Quote by Raymond Chandler

The wet air was as cold as the ashes of love. — © Raymond Chandler
The wet air was as cold as the ashes of love.
The sun did not shine. It was too wet to play. So we sat in the house. All that cold, cold, wet day.
Put someone on a horse looking cold and wet, and they don't have to act. They just are cold and wet.
I hate being cold and I hate being wet and around 80% percent of this film I was cold and another 60% I was cold and wet, so it wasn't the best shoot for me.
This is about doing something difficult and not stopping when it becomes not just difficult, but cold and difficult...or cold and wet and difficult...or cold and wet and dark and difficult.
A guitarist or a drummer can get a cold and still play; I get a cold and sound like a wet mitten trying to sing you a love song. Charming.
He reached forward then took me in his arms, held me close for a moment, the breath of snow and ashes cold around us. Then he kissed me, released me, and I took a deep breath of cold air, harsh with the scent of burning.
The air was cold to the lungs, the long grass dripping wet, and the herbs on it gave out their spiced astringent scent. In a little while on all sides the Cicada would begin to sing. The grass was me , and the air, the distant invisible mountains were me, the tired oxen were me. I breathed with the slight night-wind in the thorn trees.
There's virtually nothing to stop the cold air from off of Hudson Bay from flowing down across the midlands. So you get good contrast: the warm air coming up -- the cold air coming down -- and where they meet is your typical frontal location.
Every child begins the world again, to some extent, and loves to stay outdoors, even in wet and cold. It plays house, as well as horse, having an instinct for it...At last we know not what it is to live in the open air, and our lives are domestic in more senses than we think.
But I love Halloween, and I love that feeling: the cold air, the spooky dangers lurking around the corner.
I do love the Ashes and some of my best memories are from Ashes cricket. I just wish we'd played a few more Test matches.
Though jealousy be produced by love, as ashes are by fire, yet jealousy extinguishes love as ashes smother the flame.
Some people say love is a losing game, you start with fire and you lose the flame. The ashes smolder, but the warmth's soon gone, you end up cold and lonely on your own.
I love the water. Everything about it. Smelling the humidity in the air, seeing the mist rise in the morning, feeling the dew-wet grass on my bare feet. I love watching the fish jump and the geese land. We even have an eagle here that circles every so often.
He lay listening to the water drip in the woods. Bedrock, this. The cold and the silence. The ashes of the late world carried on the bleak and temporal winds to and fro in the void. Carried forth and scattered and carried forth again. Everything uncoupled from its shoring. Unsupported in the ashen air. Sustained by a breath, trembling and brief. If only my heart were stone.
It was cold. Space, the air we breathed, the yellow rocks, were deadly cold. There was something ultimate, passionless, and eternal in this cold. It came to us as a single constant note from the depths of space. We stood on the very boundary of life and death.
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