Burgundy Color Quotes

I like my coffee black, my beer from Germany, wine from Burgundy, the darker, the better. I like my heroes complicated and brooding, James Dean in oiled leather, leaning on a motorcycle. You know the color. ("Ode to Chocolate")

I smiled at the stacks, inhaling again. Hundreds of thousands of pages that had never been turned, waiting for me. The shelves were a warm, blond wood, piled with spines of every color. Staff picks were arranged on tables, glossy covers reflecting the light back at me. Behind the little cubby where the cashier sat, ignoring us, stairs covered with rich burgundy carpet led up to the worlds unknown. 'I could just live here,' I said.

The sun goes down long and red. All the magic names of the valley unrolled - Manteca, Madera, all the rest. Soon it got dusk, a grapy dusk, a purple dusk over tangerine groves and long melon field; the sun the color of pressed grapes, slashed with burgundy red, the fields the color of love and Spanish mysteries. I stuck my head out the window and took deep breaths of the fragant air. It was the most beautiful of all moments.

Most of the passenger cars are lined with thick patterned carpets, upholstered in velvets in burgundies and violets and creams, as though they have been dipped in a sunset, hovering at twilight and holding on to the colors before they fade to midnight and stars.

Please, I know you understand heartbreak. Stop Luc from marrying Marisol. Save my heart from breaking again.” “Now, that was a pathetic speech.” Two slow claps followed the indolent voice, which sounded just a few feet away. Evangeline spun around, all the blood draining from her face. She didn’t expect to see him—the young man who’d been tearing his clothes in the back of the church. Although it was difficult to believe this was the same person. She had thought that boy was in agony, but he must have ripped away his pain along with the sleeves of his jacket, which now hung in tatters over a striped black-and-white shirt that was only halfway tucked into his breeches. He sat on the dais steps, lazily leaning against one of the pillars with his long, lean legs stretched out before him. His hair was golden and messy, his too-bright blue eyes were bloodshot, and his mouth twitched at the corner as if he didn’t enjoy much, but he found pleasure in the brief bit of pain he’d just inflicted upon her. He looked bored and rich and cruel. “Would you like me to stand up and turn around so that you can take in the rest of me?” he taunted. The color instantly returned to Evangeline’s cheeks. “We’re in a church.” “What does that have to do with anything?” In one elegant move, the young man reached into the inner pocket of his ripped burgundy coat, pulled out a pure white apple, and took one bite. Dark red juice dripped from the fruit to his long, pale fingers and then onto the pristine marble steps. “Don’t do that!” Evangeline hadn’t meant to yell. Although she wasn’t shy with strangers, she generally avoided quarrelling with them. But she couldn’t seem to help it with this crass young man. “You’re being disrespectful.” “And you’re praying to an immortal who kills every girl he kisses. You really think he deserves any reverence?” The awful young man punctuated his words with another wide bite of his apple.

Autumn was her favorite season; the leaves had changed from their late-summer dark-green color to a mix of burgundies, oranges, and golds. The cool breeze blew through her hair, and she took a deep breath and appreciated how the crisp air filled her lungs and made everything feel fresh and new.

And the skies: in one day the sky could travel from green at dawn to a noon-time blue so severe it was almost black to hot silver in the afternoon to roiling burgundy at sunset. Just before night it flowered in yawning, imperial violets. Wedges of mauve, cauldrons of peach - skies more like drugs than colors.

Soon it got dusk, a grapy dusk, a purple dusk over tangerine groves and long melon fields; the sun the color of pressed grapes, slashed with burgundy red, the fields the color of love and Spanish mysteries. I stuck my head out the window and took deep breaths of the fragrant air. It was the most beautiful moment of all moments.

The room was too much there. I could feel the color of the wallpaper -- burgundy -- invading.

Soon it got dusk, a grapy dusk, a purple dusk over tangerine groves and long melon fields; the sun the color of pressed grapes, slashed with burgundy red, the fields the color of love and Spanish mysteries.

The sun goes down long and red. All the magic names of the valley unrolled—Manteca, Madera, all the rest. Soon it got dusk, a grapy dusk, a purple dusk over tangerine groves and long melon fields; the sun the color of pressed grapes, slashed with burgundy red, the fields the color of love and Spanish mysteries. I stuck my head out the window and took deep breaths of the fragrant air. It was the most beautiful of all moments

The Challons' cook and kitchen staff had outdone themselves with a variety of dishes featuring spring vegetables and local fish and game. Although the cook back home at Eversby Priory was excellent, the food at Heron's Point was a cut above. There were colorful vegetables cut into tiny julienne strips, tender artichoke hearts roasted with butter, steaming crayfish in a sauce of white burgundy and truffles, and delicate filets of sole coated with crisp breadcrumbs. Pheasant covered with strips of boiled potatoes that had been whipped with cream and butter into savory melting fluff. Beef roasts with peppery crackled hides were brought out on massive platters, along with golden-crusted miniature game pies, and macaroni baked with Gruyère cheese in clever little tart dishes.

And the skies: in one day the sky could travel from green at dawn to a noontime blue so severe it was almost black to hot silver in the afternoon to roiling burgundy at sunset. Just before night it flowered in yawning, imperial violets. Wedges of mauve, cauldrons of peach—skies more like drugs than colors.

The sun goes down long and red. All the magic names of the valley unrolled—Manteca, Madera, all the rest. Soon it got dusk, a grapy dusk, a purple dusk over tangerine groves and long melon fields; the sun the color of pressed grapes, slashed with burgundy red, the fields the color of love and Spanish mysteries.

Lola: [looks horrified] Burgundy. Please, God, tell me I have not inspired something burgundy. Red. Red. *Red*. *Red*, Charlie boy. *Red*! Is the color of sex! Burgundy is the color of hot water bottles! Red is the color of sex and fear and danger and signs that say, Do. Not. Enter. All my favorite things in life.

Soon it got dusk, a grapy dusk, a purple dusk over tangerine groves and long melon fields; the sun the color of pressed grapes, slashed with burgundy red, the fields the color of love and Spanish mysteries. I stuck my head out the window and took deep breaths of the fragrant air. It was the most beautiful of all moments.

As Yarrow slept and the moon rose high in the sky, a breeze rustled through stalks of onyx-hued basil and deep gray sage, tall as sunflowers. Starlight fell in slants across petals of black violets. A night-dark strawberry rolled across the ground. A plum-colored tomato fell from its stem. Borage and pansies and nasturtium in varying shades of black and gray turned the darkness into its own kind of rainbow. Beneath the soil lurked something even darker. Generations of pain saturated the earth, fed each stem and fruit and flower. In the soft, thick leaves of sage: loss. In the blackened basil: broken hearts. Tucked inside the husks of charcoal corn: anger and betrayal. Trapped within the bell of burgundy calla lilies: stolen innocence.

Soon it got dusk, a grappy dusk, a purple dusk over tangerine groves and long melon fields; the sun the color of pressed grapes, slashed with burgundy red, the fields the color of love and Spanish mysteries. LA is the loneliest and most brutal of American cities; New York gets god-awful cold in the winter but there's a feeling of wacky comradeship somewhere in some streets. LA is a jungle.

Seeing Myself in a Season Burgundy sweaters Handwritten letters If I were a season I would be Fall Brown curly hair playing truth or dare Adventures and change Feelings all strange If I were a season I would be Fall Messy notebooks filled with All of my secrets Looking out the windows Like Mother Earth I'd let out a breath and The trees would shake My blood would be an apricot color I'd hide in the forest Covered with bright yellow leaves Branched out above two lovers Because if I were a season I would be Fall

As I’ve been telling you, Cassandra, you need to be cautious. People are not always what they seem.” Cass lifted her chin and forced herself to sound casual. “I feel very safe here on San Domenico.” She added, for good measure, “Especially now that you’re staying with us.” Luca smiled faintly. “I’m glad to hear it. I thought maybe you were finding my presence burdensome.” He flicked his eyes toward the mantel clock. “You should probably get dressed.” Luca was already dressed. He wore black breeches and boots with a wine-colored silk doublet that fit snugly across his broad shoulders. A gold embroidered velvet cape hung from one shoulder. Most of his thick blondish hair was covered by a small-brimmed black velvet hat adorned with a plume of burgundy and white feathers. “You look nice,” Cass said, partially to soften him and partially because it was true. “So do you,” he responded instantly. “I mean, you will--I mean, you do now too, but--” She turned back toward her room as Luca fumbled over his words. His politeness was sort of charming. So different from the men in the streets who hollered and clapped when women walked by. He probably wouldn’t even try to kiss her again unless she specifically told him it was all right. For a brief second, Cass wondered what it would be like to stand on her tiptoes and press her mouth against Luca’s pale lips. His beard had grown out some in the past few days. What would it feel like against the smooth skin of her cheek?

You made a good choice for your Naga,” she assured me. “Danica is more graceful on a dais than half the serpents I know.” “Provided she isn’t blushing too brightly to see,” another quipped. “The first time I saw our queen perform, I thought she was a lost cause--far too uptight, like most avians--but I’m glad to be proved wrong.” I knew I was grinning. I had never doubted that Danica could learn the serpent art. Much of her loved my world; a part of her craved dance as surely as anyone else in this nest did. Perhaps that thirst came from her time dancing with the currents of air far above where we earthbound creatures roamed, or perhaps it came from the expressive nature her own world forced her to hide. Similar conversation flowed among us until A’isha’s musical voice commanded me, “Zane, admire your queen.” The words brought our attention to the back of the room, where Danica had emerged, looking so beautiful that she took my breath away. In response to her teacher’s words, Danica smiled and shook her head, causing her golden hair to ripple about her face. It made my heart speed and my breath still, as if I was afraid the next movement would shatter the world. She was a spark of fire in sha’Mehay. The serpiente dress rippled around the hawk’s long legs, the fabric so light it moved with the slightest shift of air. The bodice was burgundy silk; it laced up the front with a black ribbon, and though it was more modest than many dancers’ costumes, it still revealed enough cream-and-roses skin to tantalize the imagination. On Danica’s right temple, A’isha had painted a symbol for courage; beneath her left collarbone lay the symbols for san’Anhamirak, abandon and freedom. “You dance every day with the wind. This is not so different,” A’isha said encouragingly to Danica. “Now, look at the man you love and dance for him.” The nest hushed, faces turning to their Naga. Her cheeks held more color than usual, which A’isha addressed with a common dancers’ proverb. “There is no place for shame, Danica. If Anhamirak had not wanted beauty admired, she would not have made our eyes desire it. You are art.” Danica stepped out of A’isha’s grip. “If my mother could see me now,” she murmured, but she smiled as she said it.

In the next moment, he was thinking with pleasurable amusement that Lillian was beginning to show her age. The deep burgundy color of her gown was unbecoming, it seemed to draw a purplish tinge out of her skin, a tinge that gathered, like twilight, in the small gullies of her face, softening her flesh to a texture of tired slackness, changing her look of bright mockery into a look of stale malice.

There is no Card. He’s playing a trick. “There is no color,” I said. “There can’t be a Card.” “I assure you there is.” I ripped the blindfold from my face, a small gasp escaping my lips as I stared at the image of ancient trees bound together by forest-green velvet. The Twin Alders Card. The Nightmare and I realized the truth at the same moment. A laugh rippled in my throat. “There’s no magic,” I said. “Just paper and velvet. It’s a fake.” Ravyn smiled, a shadow shifting along his striking nose. “Are you sure?” “Positive, Captain.” When he pocketed the false Card, the others flickered and jostled. I caught a glance of the familiar burgundy light in the cluster of colors and narrowed my gaze. “There’s a lot of talk about the two Nightmare Cards,” I said, my tone sharp. “But no one seems to know that the King already has one. Or that his Captain uses it so freely.

Ravyn Yew watched me with gray eyes, his head tilted to the side. He looked like his namesake, the raven: sharp, intelligent, striking. But my gaze did not linger on the Captain’s face. I was too caught up in the color—the light—radiating from his breast pocket. It was darker than the Maiden, but just as strong. Dread curled my chest and I choked on air. I had seen that hue of velvet before. Burgundy—rich and blood red. The second Nightmare Card.

Stop!” his voice called through the mist. “I’m not going to hurt you—just wait a moment!” Somewhere in the distance, I heard the bay of hounds. I swerved away, but my stumble had disoriented me, leaving me directionless. Still, I was faster than the Captain. I was going to get away—going to live. I just needed to— The smell of salt hit my nose, as if someone had thrust icy seawater into my face. I felt it in my ears—my eyes—my nostrils, into the roof of my mouth. I coughed, gasping frantically for air, my mind and body suddenly gripped by something I could not fathom. Wait, Elspeth Spindle, a deep voice called in my head. I’m not going to hurt you. I screamed. My foot caught on dirt clods and I fell, flattened by gravity and the sound of Ravyn Yew’s voice in my head. I clasped my hands over my ears and screamed again, terror lashing me like the thorns in a bramble. He was upon me with a flurry of burgundy color. He slid to the ground next to me, his hand quick to cover my mouth. “Hush!” he said, winded. “They’ll hear us.

His eyes slid over Ravyn’s hands—his pockets. Ravyn knew what he was hoping to glimpse. The Nightmare Card. Only two burgundy Nightmare Cards had been forged. Both had been missing for decades. Tyrn Hawthorn had brought one forward—traded it to King Rowan at Equinox for a marriage contract between Ione and Hauth. It was no doubt still being used at Stone by the Physicians attempting to revive Hauth. Gorse wasn’t the smartest Destrier. But the distrust coloring his face meant he had come to one of two conclusions. Either Ravyn had taken the King’s Nightmare Card— Or he, Captain of the Destriers, possessed the second one. Along with a Mirror Card he’d conveniently failed to mention.

O’Mara sat back down and crossed his legs effortlessly. His freshly creased slacks were the color of butterscotch. His wing-tipped loafers were burgundy. He wore no socks. He had on a starched white shirt, open at the throat, and a blue blazer with brass buttons. My clothes must never fit that well, I thought. I’d be overwhelmed with sexual opportunities, and never get any work done. I promised myself to be careful.

Gold is a light, shimmery gold that applies like a creme and packs tons of shine. Although I think that this color is so pretty, it didn’t really complement my yellow-toned skin very well. If your skin tone can provide the right contrast, then Fall’s Gold is just the right metallic to carry you through the fall. • Amy’s Wine House is a true, deep burgundy that made me feel like I was staring into a glass of red wine.

On the back was a burgundy colored stamp, shaped like a love heart. It was just like one of those old-fashioned wax seals that were used long ago for keeping the contents of a letter secure and intact.

The month of August was upon them already. Where did the time go? The leaves were turning that special red—not a bright red or burgundy, an in-between red-and-orange. Other leaves were turning a beautiful golden shade. There was a splash of yellow leaves threading through the branches. Different variations of green leaves remained. The array of colour was breathtaking. Maple trees do not grow in England. What a pity, it is such a beautiful tree.

Light pink and sky blue are more energizing than burgundy and navy because they reflect more light, imbuing a space with life. Dark, desaturated colors absorb light, bringing down the energy in a space.

Her feet touched upon ground, and a cloud of silvery dust blossomed up to her waist. Her clothes shimmered, and the checkered cotton dress she was wearing became an elegant white gown with a silver cord around the waist. "Your apprentice gown," explained Agata. She gestured ahead. "Welcome to the Wishing Star." Before her was a village not unlike Pariva, only every cottage was a different color: rose, violet, mahogany, marigold. Burgundy, magenta, and pearl. Even the flowers in the gardens matched the colors of the houses, and trees made of gold and copper and silver lined the shimmering streets. In the center was a house made of crystal, its windows stained with hearts of every color in the town. As soon as her gaze fell upon the house, its door opened, and over a dozen fairies filed outside, each wearing a warm smile.

Within all of these species, of course, there still exist tremendous variations in taste, color and texture. Each season produces new tastes, much like a wine from, say, Burgundy does. For most of their natural history, salmon have been wild foods, so their taste, texture and color resist the homogeneity demanded by industrial food production. Every single wild salmon is different. This is part of the gastronomic beauty of the fish, even though it frustrates consumers with palates trained by corporate food to expect conformity. This fact, too, has been written by evolution and the currents of deep time, processes that privilege diversity over uniformity, chaos over control.

The lightness of a color has to do with how much white or black is mixed into it. White reflects light, while black absorbs it. So adding white makes a color lighter and more reflective, while adding black makes it darker and more muted. Light pink and sky blue are more energizing than burgundy and navy because they reflect more light, imbuing a space with life.

Seven of them. An old, open-top Jeep with most of its paint missing. A Chrysler 300 sedan in black with chrome wheels and heavy tints on the windows. A Porsche 911, dark blue and gleaming in the afternoon sun. A 1980s Cadillac, originally burgundy, now chalky and dull. A mustard-colored Volvo station wagon. A tiny, sky blue FIAT. And a white Hyundai SUV.

I want to make a heart in red flowers with blue flowers around it." "Okeydokey. So, let's look for red flowers and blue flowers." We flipped, she picked blue violas ("painted porcelain" they were called, a pale blue with darker blue edges, very pretty,) and something called a "chocolate cosmos," which was more burgundy than red, but still, it's her garden. "Are they actually chocolate?" asked Clare, who had come back for a snack for herself and a rawhide chewy for Frank. "No, but it says here that they smell of chocolate." "Hmm." She'd fallen for that one before.

. O’Mara sat back down and crossed his legs effortlessly. His freshly creased slacks were the color of butterscotch. His wing-tipped loafers were burgundy. He wore no socks. He had on a starched white shirt, open at the throat, and a blue blazer with brass buttons. My clothes must never fit that well, I thought. I’d be overwhelmed with sexual opportunities, and never get any work done. I promised myself to be careful.

You can meditate upon this beautiful burgundy-colored teardrop gemstone and know you are the God Gem. It’s a place of wholeness where one can experience their divinity, their completeness and know their absolute perfection. Even if someone is covered by troubles, they will discover their good actions and thoughts are the pure gem underneath.” ~ Kuan Yin