A Quote by Robert T. Bakker

Feathers predate birds. — © Robert T. Bakker
Feathers predate birds.
Feathers filled the small room. Our laughter kept the feathers in the air. I thought about birds. Could they fly is there wasn't someone, somewhere, laughing?
Imagine if birds were tickled by feathers. You'd see a flock of birds come by, laughing hysterically!
Feathers! spluttered Sargatanas. Feathers are for the birds, my boy. Flaking, peeling, scale-ridden wings, now that's what real beings wear. I'll tell you a secret. He said, and drew me closer. The eternal pain at having known Paradise and lost it is priceless. I wouldn't swap it for anything.
In painting feathers, you want to create the look of feathers, but if you try to paint all the feathers, you have nothing but disaster.
Devils are depicted with bats' wings and good angels with birds' wings, not because anyone holds that moral deterioration would be likely to turn feathers into membrane, but because most men like birds better than bats.
Without feathers it isn't easy to fly: my wings have got no feathers. [Lat., Sine pennis volare hau facilest: meae alae pennas non habent.] [Alt., Flying without feathers is not easy; my wings have no feathers.]
I have to remind myself that some birds aren’t meant to be caged. Their feathers are just too bright.
Fifteen birds in five firtrees, their feathers were fanned in a fiery breeze! But, funny little birds, they had no wings! O what shall we do with the funny little things? Roast 'em alive, or stew them in a pot; fry them, boil them and eat them hot?
The books leapt and danced like roasted birds, their wings ablaze with red and yellow feathers.
Feathers shall raise men even as they do birds towards heaven :- That is by letters written with their quills.
I've always loved stories of animals and birds that can appear to be human, just by taking off their skins or their feathers.
Writing songs is like capturing birds without killing them. Sometimes you end up with nothing but a mouthful of feathers.
When Emily Dickinson writes, “Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul,” she reminds us, as the birds do, of the liberation and pragmatism of belief.
Dinosaurs grew feathers for heat regulation, but the ones that started flying started becoming birds.
It is not only fine feathers that make fine birds.
Fine feathers, they say, make fine birds.
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