Smutted Quotes & Sayings

With widened eyes she stumbled backwards, not able to take her gaze from the flames engulfing the wooden shed right in front of them, wrapping it into their embrace before taking it over. Black parts of smutted wood started to glow, welcoming the tongues of fire that devoured the shed inch by inch. — Jessica Werner

And when he beheld their dark sails, smutted by the burning tar that had blinded their enemy, he believed them blackened in mourning for the young man, and he threw himself down, and so perished. For no man lives long when his dreams are dead. — Gene Wolfe

How much longer do you really think your own country will last? Forever? Keep in mind that the earth itself is destined to be destroyed by the sun in twenty-five million years or so. — Joseph Heller

This mangled, smutted semi-world hacked out
Of dirt ... It is not possible for the moon
To blot this with its dove-winged blendings. — Wallace Stevens

The heart of a statesman should be in his head. — Napoleon Bonaparte

The Lord who gave us Earth and Heaven
Takes that as thanks for all He's given.
The book he lent is given back
All blotted red and smutted black. — John Masefield

The key is, if you're not monkeying around with the script, then everything usually goes pretty well. — Steven Soderbergh

The Eucharist is a symbol of that as you have bread, the staple food of the poor, and wine, a luxury of the rich, which are brought together at the table. — Shane Claiborne

Do not forget that chiropractors did not treat diseases. They adjust causes, whether acquired, spontaneous, or the result of accident. — Daniel D. Palmer

Then Night came down like the feathery soot of a smoky lamp, and smutted[9] first the bedquilt, then the hearth-rug, then the window-seat, and then at last the great, stormy, faraway outside world. But sleep did not come. Oh, no! Nothing new came at all except that particularly wretched, itching type of insomnia which seems to rip away from one's body the whole kind, protecting skin and expose all the raw, ticklish fretwork of nerves to the mercy of a gritty blanket or a wrinkled sheet. Pain came too, in its most brutally high night-tide; and sweat, like the smother of furs in summer; and thirst like the scrape of hot sand-paper; and chill like the clammy horror of raw fish. — Eleanor Hallowell Abbott