Thomas Starr King Quotes

Thus far we run before the wind.

The wind at Candlestick tonight is blowing with great propensity.

The effect of sailing is produced by a judicious arrangement of the sails to the direction of the wind.

The weather for me is nothing special. The weather couldn't kill me.

When the wind blows through a wood, its mass is cut and closed by every leaf, forming a train of jittery vortices in the air.

You must shift your sail with the wind.

For me, the wind is the worst weather you can have to play football.

Life is like a fire. Flames which the passer-by forgets. Ashes which the wind scatters. A man lived.

Some of us, regarding the ocean with understanding and affection, have seen it looking old, as if the immemorial ages had been stirred up from the undisturbed bottom of ooze. For it is a gale of wind that makes the sea look old.

Cold winds are disagreeable, hot winds enervating, moist winds unhealthy.

Sometimes the wind along the Pacific shore blows so hard it steals your breath before you can inhale it.

In a moment the ashes are made, but a forest is a long time growing.

Piece by piece, I fed my wardrobe to the night wind, and flutteringly, like a loved one’s ashes, the gray scraps were ferried off, to settle here, there, exactly where I would never know, in the dark heart of New York.

The splendors that belong unto the fame of earth are but a wind, that in the same direction lasts not long.

...When you die, the energy that kept you alive filters into the people you loved. Did you know that? It's like a fire you've tended all your life, and the sparks are all scattered into the wind.... That's why we survive as long as we do, because the people who loved us keep us going.

Bring awareness to the many subtle sounds of nature - The rustling of leaves in the wind, Raindrops falling, The humming of an insect, The first birdsong at dawn.

I am a product of long corridors, empty sunlit rooms, upstairs indoor silences, attics explored in solitude, distant noises of gurgling cisterns and pipes, and the noise of wind under the tiles. Also, of endless books.

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.

I thought of how proud he was when he took the marks- cutting the skin of his throat in a long slash and then packing it with ashes until keloid scars rose up. He called it his second smile.

There are things about signing on to a process over the long term that protect you from the buffeting winds of change.

The most straightforward path would be if we could bring the cost of solar electric and wind down by another factor of say, three, and then have some miraculous storage solution, so that not only over the 24-hour day but over long periods of time where the wind doesn't blow, you have reliable energy. That's a path. But energy storage is hard. That's not a guaranteed path.

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May.

The way was long, the wind was cold, The Minstrel was infirm and old; His withered cheek, and tresses gray, Seemed to have know a better day.

Truth ... Is a breath, a wind, A shadow, a phantom; Long have I pursued it, But never have I touched The hem of its garment.