Copper Color Quotes

We've searched our database for all the quotes and captions related to Copper Color. Here they are! All 100 of them:

If complete and utter chaos was lightning, then he'd be the sort to stand on a hilltop in a thunderstorm wearing wet copper armour and shouting 'All gods are bastards!
Terry Pratchett (The Color of Magic (Discworld, #1; Rincewind, #1))
So here's the truth - I love you. I love everything about you – the way you stick up for people even when it costs you. The way you keep trying to do the right thing even when you're not exactly sure what the right thing is. I love how you put words together. You're as skilled with words as any knife fighter with a blade. You can put an enemy down on his back, or you can raise people up so they find what's best in themselves. You've changed my life. You've given me the words I need to become whatever I want. I love how you talk to lytlings. You don't talk down to them. You respect them, and anybody can tell you're actually interested in what they have to say. I love the way you ride a horse – how you stick there like an upland thistle, whooping like a Demonai. I love the way you throw back your head and stomp your feet when you dance. I love how you go after what you want – whether it's kisses or a queendom. I love your skin, like copper dusted over with gold. And your eyes – they're the color of a forest lake shaded by evergreens. One of the secret places that only the Demonai know about. I love the scent of you – when you've been out in the fresh air, and that perfume you put behind your ears sometimes. Believe it or not, I even love your road smell – of sweat and horses and leather and wool. I want to breathe you in for the rest of my life.
Cinda Williams Chima (The Crimson Crown (Seven Realms, #4))
A lion is a mammal like us; an octopus is put together completely differently, with three hearts, a brain that wraps around its throat, and a covering of slime instead of hair. Even their blood is a different color from ours; it’s blue, because copper, not iron, carries its oxygen.
Sy Montgomery (The Soul of an Octopus: A Surprising Exploration into the Wonder of Consciousness)
I looked at the ornaments on the desk. Everything standard and all copper. A copper lamp, pen set and pencil tray, a glass and copper ashtray with a copper elephant on the rim, a copper letter opener, a copper thermos bottle on a copper tray, copper corners on the blotter holder. There was a spray of almost copper-colored sweet peas in a copper vase. It seemed like a lot of copper.
Raymond Chandler (The High Window (Philip Marlowe, #3))
I love the hint of copper in your eyes, radiating out like the sun, turning your pupils into an eclipse.' He ran his thumb down my cheekbone. 'The different striations of color, how every band of green is its own unique shade. A shard of a broken Heineken bottle, a blade of grass, moss on a rusty can.' 'Romantic...' I laughed.
Anastasia Hopcus
How could they find out that their tea and coffee, their sugar and flour, had been doctored; that their canned peas had been colored with copper salts, and their fruit jams with aniline dyes?
Upton Sinclair (The Jungle)
A lot of the nonsense was the innocent result of playfulness on the part of the founding fathers of the nation of Dwayne Hoover and Kilgore Trout. The founders were aristocrats, and they wished to show off their useless eduction, which consisted of the study of hocus-pocus from ancient times. They were bum poets as well. But some of the nonsense was evil, since it concealed great crime. For example, teachers of children in the United States of America wrote this date on blackboards again and again, and asked the children to memorize it with pride and joy: 1492 The teachers told the children that this was when their continent was discovered by human beings. Actually, millions of human beings were already living full and imaginative lives on the continent in 1492. That was simply the year in which sea pirates began to cheat and rob and kill them. Here was another piece of nonsense which children were taught: that the sea pirates eventually created a government which became a beacon of freedom of human beings everywhere else. There were pictures and statues of this supposed imaginary beacon for children to see. It was sort of ice-cream cone on fire. It looked like this: [image] Actually, the sea pirates who had the most to do with the creation of the new government owned human slaves. They used human beings for machinery, and, even after slavery was eliminated, because it was so embarrassing, they and their descendants continued to think of ordinary human beings as machines. The sea pirates were white. The people who were already on the continent when the pirates arrived were copper-colored. When slavery was introduced onto the continent, the slaves were black. Color was everything. Here is how the pirates were able to take whatever they wanted from anybody else: they had the best boats in the world, and they were meaner than anybody else, and they had gunpowder, which is a mixture of potassium nitrate, charcoal, and sulphur. They touched the seemingly listless powder with fire, and it turned violently into gas. This gas blew projectiles out of metal tubes at terrific velocities. The projectiles cut through meat and bone very easily; so the pirates could wreck the wiring or the bellows or the plumbing of a stubborn human being, even when he was far, far away. The chief weapon of the sea pirates, however, was their capacity to astonish. Nobody else could believe, until it was much too late, how heartless and greedy they were.
Kurt Vonnegut Jr. (Breakfast of Champions)
When the Devil was a woman, When Lilith wound Her ebony hair in heavy braids, And framed Her pale features all 'round With Botticelli's tangled thoughts, When she, smiling softly, Ringed all her slim fingers In golden bands with brilliant stones, When she leafed through Villiers And loved Huysmans, When she fathomed Maeterlinck's silence And bathed her Soul In Gabriel d'Annunzio's colors, She even laughed And as she laughed, The little princess of serpents sprang Out of her mouth. Then the most beautiful of she-devils Sought after the serpent, She seized the Queen of Serpents With her ringed finger, So that she wound and hissed Hissed, hissed And spit venom. In a heavy copper vase; Damp earth, Black damp earth She scattered upon it. Lightly her great hands caressed This heavy copper vase All around, Her pale lips lightly sang Her ancient curse. Like a children's rhyme her curses chimed, Soft and languid Languid as the kisses, That the damp earth drank From her mouth, But life arose in the vase, And tempted by her languid kisses, And tempted by those sweet tones, From the black earth slowly there crept, Orchids - When the most beloved Adorns her pale features before the mirror All 'round with Botticelli's adders, There creep sideways from the copper vase, Orchids- Devil's blossoms which the ancient earth, Wed by Lilith's curse To serpent's venom, has borne to the light Orchids- The Devil's blossoms- "The Diary Of An Orange Tree
Hanns Heinz Ewers (Nachtmahr: Strange Tales)
If Los Angeles is a woman reclining billboard model and the San Fernando Valley is her teenybopper sister, then New York is their cousin. Her hair is dyed autumn red or aubergine or Egyptian henna, depending on her mood. Her skin is pale as frost and she wears beautiful Jil Sander suits and Prada pumps on which she walks faster than a speeding taxi (when it is caught in rush hour, that is). Her lips are some unlikely shade of copper or violet, courtesy of her local MAC drag queen makeup consultant. She is always carrying bags of clothes, bouquets of roses, take-out Chinese containers, or bagels. Museum tags fill her pockets and purses, along with perfume samples and invitations to art gallery openings. When she is walking to work, to ward off bums or psychos, her face resembles the Statue of Liberty, but at home in her candlelit, dove-colored apartment, the stony look fades away and she smiles like the sterling roses she has brought for herself to make up for the fact that she is single and her feet are sore.
Francesca Lia Block (I Was a Teenage Fairy)
His eyes looked pale green this afternoon, the color of corroded copper.
Cara McKenna (After Hours)
The Gray soldiers prowl the cities ensuring order, ensuring obedience to the hierarchy. The Whites arbitrate their justice and push their philosophy. Pinks pleasure and serve in highColor homes. Silvers count and manipulate currency and logistics. Yellows study the medicines and sciences. Greens develop technology. Blues navigate the stars. Coppers run the beauracracy. Every Color has a purpose. Every Color props up the Golds.
Pierce Brown (Red Rising (Red Rising Saga, #1))
But the kitchen will not come into its own again until it ceases to be a status symbol and becomes again a workshop. It may be pastel. It may be ginghamed as to curtains and shining with copper like a picture in a woman's magazine. But you and I will know it chiefly by its fragrances and its clutter. At the back of the stove will sit a soup kettle, gently bubbling, one into which every day are popped leftover bones and vegetables to make stock for sauces or soup for the family. Carrots and leeks will sprawl on counters, greens in a basket. There will be something sweet-smelling twirling in a bowl and something savory baking in the oven. Cabinet doors will gape ajar and colored surfaces are likely to be littered with salt and pepper and flour and herbs and cheesecloth and pot holders and long-handled forks. It won't be neat. It won't even look efficient. but when you enter it you will feel the pulse of life throbbing from every corner. The heart of the home will have begun once again to beat.
Phyllis McGinley
Scholars of the Therin Collegium, from their comfortable position well inland, could tell you that the wolf sharks of the Iron Sea are beautiful and fascinating creatures, their bodies more packed with muscle than any bull, their abrasive hide streaked with every color from old-copper green to stormcloud black. Anyone actually working the waterfront in Camorr and on the nearby coast could tell you that wolf sharks are big aggressive bastards that like to jump.
Scott Lynch (The Lies of Locke Lamora (Gentleman Bastard, #1))
Be winged. Be the father of all flying horses," roared Aslan in a voice that shook the ground. "Your name is Fledge." The horse shied, just as it might have shied in the old, miserable days when it pulled a hansom. Then it roared. It strained its neck back as if there were a fly biting its shoulders and it wanted to scratch them. And then, just as the beasts had burst out of the earth, there burst out from the shoulders of Fledge wings that spread and grew, larger than eagles', larger than swans', larger than angels' wings in church windows. The feathers shone chestnut color and copper color. He gave a great sweep with them and leapt into the air. Twenty feet above Aslan and Digory he snorted, neighed, and curvetted. Then, after circling once round them, he dropped to the earth, all four hoofs together, looking awkward and surprised, but extremely pleased. "Is it good, Fledge?" said Aslan. "It is very good, Aslan," said Fledge.
C.S. Lewis (The Magician's Nephew (Chronicles of Narnia, #6))
Reaction time Touch the underside of a penny you find on the street Doesn't feel any different unless you close your eyes I can taste the copper in my mouth now seeping from between my teeth There's an explanation I'm sure all this blood it's from all the times I held the glass too close And forgot to tip the dancer A storm just passed and like every other one that came before it I was left unharmed The dogs are all barking and the cats hiding in the basement And the sky is colored that bright yellow glow makes it feel like you're wearing sunglasses that you can't take off Wherever you are now it's not here because I missed it I missed the show I missed the curtain call And forever more I am cursed like a blanket without a body to keep warm
Dave Matthes (Strange Rainfall on the Rooftops of People Watchers: Poems and Stories)
Her eyes drift up and away, enlarging them, a beautiful copper color. It makes her look even younger. Less of the hardened image she’s trying to project and more the scared kid she must be, underneath it all.
Bill Clinton (The President Is Missing)
The torchlit garden was redolent with the colors and scents of autumn... gold and copper foliage, thick borders of roses and dahlias, flowering grasses and beds of fresh mulch that made the air pleasantly pungent.
Lisa Kleypas (It Happened One Autumn (Wallflowers, #2))
You little (such a one who, while wearing a copper nose ring, stands in a footbath atop Mount Raruaruaha during a heavy thunderstorm and shouts that Alohura, goddess of lightning, has the facial features of a diseased uloruaha root)!
Terry Pratchett (The Color of Magic (Discworld, #1))
24 carat gold is a pure naturally occurring yellow metal. There are 4 basic shades of gold alloys: yellow gold, white gold, rose gold and green gold. A huge range of other colored golds are also possible including red (gold and copper), grey (gold, iron and copper), purple (gold and aluminum), blue (gold and iron) and black (gold and cobalt), depending on the amounts of different metals alloyed together.
Sybrina Durant (Magical Elements of the Periodic Table Presented Alphabetically by the Metal Horn Unicorns)
McGrath smoothed his hair with the flat of his hand. He was silently gazing along the copper colored pathway as though it led to a mystical place where men found answers just lying, uncovered on the warm, soft earth. A place where men knew everything and the blackness of infinity was just a ghost story told to scare children.
Mark Arundel (5th Helena Drive or The Washington Sanction)
Margherita stared at the mask. It was painted bright yellow and marked with little copper-colored circles to suggest florets. White petals streaked with gold radiated out in all directions. Long golden eyelashes fringed the eye slits, and the mouth was painted as a big happy smile. 'La sua bella,' she whispered, her lisp more pronounced than ever.
Kate Forsyth (Bitter Greens)
What did this mean for the ocean, the ecosystem, the future? All this plastic had appeared in barely more than 50 years. Would its chemical constituents or additives—for instance, colorants such as metallic copper— concentrate as they ascended the food chain, and alter evolution? Would it last long enough to enter the fossil record? Would geologists millions of years hence find Barbie doll parts embedded in conglomerates formed in seabed depositions? Would they be intact enough to be pieced together like dinosaur bones? Or would they decompose first, expelling hydrocarbons that would seep out of a vast plastic Neptune’s graveyard for eons to come, leaving fossilized imprints of Barbie and Ken hardened in stone for eons beyond?
Alan Weisman (The World Without Us)
The hardest thing to imagine was that some twentieth-century elites actually roasted their skin to the color of burnished copper and considered this hazardous activity a form of leisure!
Chi Ta-wei (The Membranes)
History is a story, my grandfather said. I offer a friendly amendment: history is many stories. Those stories are written, spoken, and sung. They are carried in our bodies. They billow all around us like copper-colored dust that sometimes obscures everything. In those stories, we grasp at meaning. We search for ourselves, for our place, for direction. We search for a way forward: a woman warrior, a complication man, an invitation home, a meteor, a lake, a child landing with a splat. Destruction and creation. Changes in light, terrain, and atmosphere. Delicate new freedom. Hope.
Nadia Owusu (Aftershocks)
The painted aircraft took on sunlight and pulse. Sweeps of color, bands and spatters, airy washes, the force of saturated light—the whole thing oddly personal, a sense of one painter’s hand moved by impulse and afterthought as much as by epic design. I hadn’t expected to register such pleasure and sensation. The air was color-scrubbed, coppers and ochers burning off the metal skin of the aircraft to exchange with the framing desert.
Don DeLillo
Wild Peaches" When the world turns completely upside down You say we’ll emigrate to the Eastern Shore Aboard a river-boat from Baltimore; We’ll live among wild peach trees, miles from town, You’ll wear a coonskin cap, and I a gown Homespun, dyed butternut’s dark gold color. Lost, like your lotus-eating ancestor, We’ll swim in milk and honey till we drown. The winter will be short, the summer long, The autumn amber-hued, sunny and hot, Tasting of cider and of scuppernong; All seasons sweet, but autumn best of all. The squirrels in their silver fur will fall Like falling leaves, like fruit, before your shot. 2 The autumn frosts will lie upon the grass Like bloom on grapes of purple-brown and gold. The misted early mornings will be cold; The little puddles will be roofed with glass. The sun, which burns from copper into brass, Melts these at noon, and makes the boys unfold Their knitted mufflers; full as they can hold Fat pockets dribble chestnuts as they pass. Peaches grow wild, and pigs can live in clover; A barrel of salted herrings lasts a year; The spring begins before the winter’s over. By February you may find the skins Of garter snakes and water moccasins Dwindled and harsh, dead-white and cloudy-clear. 3 When April pours the colors of a shell Upon the hills, when every little creek Is shot with silver from the Chesapeake In shoals new-minted by the ocean swell, When strawberries go begging, and the sleek Blue plums lie open to the blackbird’s beak, We shall live well — we shall live very well. The months between the cherries and the peaches Are brimming cornucopias which spill Fruits red and purple, sombre-bloomed and black; Then, down rich fields and frosty river beaches We’ll trample bright persimmons, while you kill Bronze partridge, speckled quail, and canvasback. 4 Down to the Puritan marrow of my bones There’s something in this richness that I hate. I love the look, austere, immaculate, Of landscapes drawn in pearly monotones. There’s something in my very blood that owns Bare hills, cold silver on a sky of slate, A thread of water, churned to milky spate Streaming through slanted pastures fenced with stones. I love those skies, thin blue or snowy gray, Those fields sparse-planted, rendering meagre sheaves; That spring, briefer than apple-blossom’s breath, Summer, so much too beautiful to stay, Swift autumn, like a bonfire of leaves, And sleepy winter, like the sleep of death.
Elinor Wylie
The surprise lay in the third niche of the high altar, on the side where the Gospels were kept. The stone shattered at the first blow of the pickax, and a stream of living hair the intense color of copper spilled out of the crypt.
Gabriel García Márquez (Of Love and Other Demons)
Which was why he reflexively turned when a flash of iridescence caught his eye. His first thought was: Morpho rhetenor Helena. The extraordinary tropical butterfly with wings of shifting colors: blues, lavenders, greens. It proved to be a woman’s skirt. The color was blue, but by the light of the legion of overhead candles, he saw purples and even greens shivering in its weave. A bracelet of pale stones winked around one wrist, a circlet banded her dark head. The chandelier struck little beams from that, too. She’s altogether too shiny for a woman, he decided, and began to turn away. Which was when she tipped her face up into the light. Everything stopped. The beat of his heart, the pump of his lungs, the march of time. Seconds later, thankfully, it all resumed. Much more violently than previously. And then absurd notions roman-candled in his mind. His palms ached to cradle her face—it was a kitten’s face, broad and fair at the brow, stubborn at the chin. She had kitten’s eyes, too: large and a bit tilted and surely they weren’t actually the azure of calm southern seas? Surely he, Miles Redmond, hadn’t entertained such a florid thought? Her eyebrows were wicked: fine, slanted, very dark. Her hair was probably brown, but it was as though he’d never learned the word “brown.” Burnished. Silk. Copper. Azure. Delicate. Angel. Hallelujah. Suddenly these were the only words he knew.
Julie Anne Long
her eyelids were colored purple, lined Cleopatra-style with kohl and fringed with the same heavy black lashes as yesterday. In the clear daylight I saw what I had not seen the night before: along the ruler-straight parting in Miss Winter’s copper curls was a narrow margin of pure white.
Diane Setterfield (The Thirteenth Tale)
It was strange to see that no matter what color the clothing first appeared—and they were all hues, from earthy copper and garnet to the blue of sky and shadow—in different light all turned to some shade of green, as if there were a third plane to the cloth’s weaving beyond the warp and weft.
Ellen Kushner (Thomas the Rhymer)
there was nothing to believe but that one colored in the room is fine, two is twenty, and three means close up shop and everybody go home; all living the New York dream in the Cause Houses, within sight of the Statue of Liberty, a gigantic copper reminder that this city was a grinding factory that diced the poor man’s dreams worse than any cotton gin or sugarcane field from the old country. And now heroin was here to make their children slaves again, to a useless white powder. She looked them over, the friends of her life, staring at her. They saw what she saw, she realized. She read it in their faces. They would never win. The game was fixed. The villains would succeed. The heroes would die. The sight of Beanie’s mother howling at her son’s coffin would haunt them all in the next few days. Next week, or next month some time, some other mother would take her place, howling her grief. And another after that. They saw the future, too, she could tell. It would continue forever. It was all so very grim. But then, she thought, every once in a while there’s a glimmer of hope. Just a blip on the horizon, a whack on the nose of the giant that set him back on his heels or to the canvas,
James McBride (Deacon King Kong)
Alas, I had no power, at that time, to combat the flat refusal of many cover departments to put people of color on a book jacket. So, through many later, lily-white Geds, Ruth Robbins’s painting for the first edition—the fine, strong profile of a young man with copper-brown skin—was, to me, the book’s one true cover.
Ursula K. Le Guin (A Wizard of Earthsea (Earthsea Cycle, #1))
He looks up and up and up to get to her face. His mama's a tall lady, and he's only seven. He's overwhelmed by red. Red heels, red nails, red lips, red hair, red eyes. So help him, the boy has always thought his mama's copper-colored eyes damn near shined red. He looks into those eyes and knows she's come home funny.
Carolyn Lee Adams (Ruthless)
Baldwin Montclair, as he was known in the financial markets, strode down the hall of the ground floor. His copper-colored hair gleamed in the electric light, and his muscles twitched with the quick reflexes of a born athlete. Trained to wield a sword from childhood, he had been imposing before becoming a vampire, and after his rebirth few dared to cross him.
Deborah Harkness (A Discovery of Witches (All Souls, #1))
Sister Gee stared at her neighbors as they surrounded her, and at that moment she saw them as she had never seen them before: they were crumbs, thimbles, flecks of sugar powder on a cookie, invisible, sporadic dots on the grid of promise, occasionally appearing on Broadway stages or on baseball teams with slogans like “You gotta believe,” when in fact there was nothing to believe but that one colored in the room is fine, two is twenty, and three means close up shop and everybody go home; all living the New York dream in the Cause Houses, within sight of the Statue of Liberty, a gigantic copper reminder that this city was a grinding factory that diced the poor man’s dreams worse than any cotton gin or sugarcane field from the old country. And
James McBride (Deacon King Kong)
Mason is able to inspect the long Map, fragrant, elegantly cartouch’d with Indians and Instruments, at last. Ev’ry place they ran it, ev’ry House pass’d by, Road cross’d, the Ridge-lines and Creeks, Forests and Glades, Water ev’ry-where, and the Dragon nearly visible. “So,— so. This is the Line as all shall see it after its Copper-Plate ’Morphosis,— and all History remember? This is what ye expect me to sign off on?” “Not the worst I’ve handed in. And had they wish’d to pay for Coloring? Why, tha’d scarcely knaah the Place . . . ?” “This is beauteous Work. Emerson was right, Jeremiah. You were flying, all the time.” Dixon, his face darken’d by the Years of Weather, may be allowing himself to blush in safety. “Could have us’d a spot of Orpiment, all the same. Some Lapis . . . ?
Thomas Pynchon (Mason & Dixon)
He pulled out stiff starched sheets, yellowed at the creases, each sheet embroidered with an elaborate medallion in which the letters D.F. twined above a garland of roses; some woman's trousseau from a hundred- two hundred- years back. There were other treasures too: sandalwood boxes of handkerchiefs, copper saucepans dulled with verdigris, an old radio from before the war, he guessed, its casing cracked to reveal tubes as big as doorknobs. Best of all was a huge old spice chest of rough black oak, some of its drawers still labeled in faded brown ink: Cannelle, Poivre Rouge, Lavande, Menthe Verte. The long-empty compartments were still fragrant with the scents of those spices, some dusted with a residue which colored his fingertips with cinnamon and ginger and paprika and turmeric.
Joanne Harris (Blackberry Wine)
Snuggle up with a hot fireman! Meet Tanner West. Sharon looked up into the most gorgeous face she had ever seen. Eyes like dark chocolate, deep and warm, stared out at her from a face that looked like it could have been chiseled in stone. Skin the color of burnished copper, high cheekbones, a sharp nose, full lips, and a cleft chin. How the hell had she failed to notice him before? Her heart skipped a beat and she ran her gaze down the rest of his body. He was tall, well over six feet, she would guess, with broad shoulders that tapered into a trim waist. His thighs, encased in worn denim, fit like a second skin against legs the size of tree trunks, and oh my, what lay between those thighs… Her attention snapped back to his face and she could feel the heat of a blush suffuse her skin.
Tamara Hoffa (A Special Kind of Love)
All the bright people, stopped in the midst of life, looking with forced smile into the lenses, then to be filed away, their colors fading as the years pass, caught there in slide trays, stack loads, view cubes, until one day the camera person dies and the grandchild says, “Mom, I don’t know any of these people. Or where these were taken even. There are jillions of them here in this big box and more in the closet. What will I do with them anyway?” “Throw them out, dear.
John D. MacDonald (The Empty Copper Sea (Travis McGee #17))
It was the colors that had initially attracted her, the vibrant blue of the Bunsen flame and the dusty red of copper and the deep violet of permanganate. It was the logic of balanced equations, the certainty that when element A mixed with element B, compound C would appear. It was like predicting the future; it was like magic. Most of all, it was being: of having to be so careful with the hydrochloric acid, of accidentally burning herself while lighting a match, of discovering.
Amy Zhang (Falling into Place)
Life in the Cause would lurch forward as it always did. You worked, slaved, fought off the rats, the mice, the roaches, the ants, the Housing Authority, the cops, the muggers, and now the drug dealers. You lived a life of disappointment and suffering, of too-hot summers and too-cold winters, surviving in apartments with crummy stoves that didn’t work and windows that didn’t open and toilets that didn’t flush and lead paint that flecked off the walls and poisoned your children, living in awful, dreary apartments built to house Italians who came to America to work the docks, which had emptied of boats, ships, tankers, dreams, money, and opportunity the moment the colored and the Latinos arrived. And still New York blamed you for all its problems. And who can you blame? You were the one who chose to live here, in this hard town with its hard people, the financial capital of the world, land of opportunity for the white man and a tundra of spent dreams and empty promises for anyone else stupid enough to believe the hype. Sister Gee stared at her neighbors as they surrounded her, and at that moment she saw them as she had never seen them before: they were crumbs, thimbles, flecks of sugar powder on a cookie, invisible, sporadic dots on the grid of promise, occasionally appearing on Broadway stages or on baseball teams with slogans like “You gotta believe,” when in fact there was nothing to believe but that one colored in the room is fine, two is twenty, and three means close up shop and everybody go home; all living the New York dream in the Cause Houses, within sight of the Statue of Liberty, a gigantic copper reminder that this city was a grinding factory that diced the poor man’s dreams worse than any cotton gin or sugarcane field from the old country. And now heroin was here to make their children slaves again, to a useless white powder. She looked them over, the friends of her life, staring at her. They saw what she saw, she realized. She read it in their faces. They would never win. The game was fixed. The villains would succeed. The heroes would die.
James McBride (Deacon King Kong)
Words are beautiful things. They hold meaning, they reveal meaning, and they give us the power to express meaning. Words are also keys that unlock the world. Every time we read a book to a child, we are holding out a new box of interesting and useful keys for them to collect: a tumble of shapes and colors in which they may discover vintage keys, copper-colored pin-tumblers, tubular keys, double-sided keys, grand brass lever-lock keys. The variety of the keys they find, by its very existence, hints at the wideness of possibility in the world.
Meghan Cox Gurdon (The Enchanted Hour: The Miraculous Power of Reading Aloud in the Age of Distraction)
   I was soon bored, for my friend Moschku had his hands full with serving his guests with brandy and gossip, and only seldom did he hop over the bar to my table, sink his verbal claws into me, and attempt a learned conversation about politics and literature.    I was bored even without that and looked around the room.    Its basic color was green.    The frugally trimmed petroleum lamp filled the room with greenish light. Green mold lay on the walls, the great rectangular oven was lacquered green, and green moss grew out of Israel's fieldstone floor. Green sediment in the schnaps glasses, green oxidation on the small tin measuring glasses that the peasants drank out of when they walked up and put their copper coins down on the bar. A green vegetation covered the cheese that Moschku placed in front of me, and his wife was sitting behind the oven in a yellow nightgown with bluish green flowers and rocking her pale green child. Green in the Jew's careworn face, green around his small, restless eyes, around his thin, motionless nostrils, and in the mockingly twisted, sour corners of his mouth.
Leopold von Sacher-Masoch (Love. The Legacy of Cain)
Rona soon picked out her own plot of land - one hundred eighty acres that stretched along the bottom of a rocky hill and only a stone's through from the shoreline. Quickly, much more quickly than natural for a man much less a woman - even one of Rona Blackburn's stature - a house appeared. She filled her new home with reminders of her previous one on the Aegean island she had loved so much: pastel seashells and a front door painted a deep cobalt blue - a color the yiayias always claimed had the power to repel evil. Then she set up her bed, made a pit for her fire, and erected two wooden tables. One table she kept bare. The other she covered in tinctures and glass jars of cut herbs and other fermented bits of flora and fauna. On this table, she kept a marble mortar and pestle, the leather sheath in which she wrapped her knives, and copper bowls - some for mixing dry ingredients, some for liquid, and a few small enough to bring to the mouth for sipping. And when the fire was stoked and the table was set, she placed a wooden sign - soon covered in a blanket of late December snow - outside that blue front door. It read one world: Witch.
Leslye Walton (The Price Guide to the Occult)
Certain it is,” he predicted in his book The Land of Gold, published in 1855, “that the greater the diversity of colors and qualities of men, the greater will be the strife and conflict of feeling.” Helper insisted that America should be a homogeneous white society. Comparing the entry of the Chinese in the West to the existence of blacks in the East, he protested: “Our population was already too heterogeneous before the Chinese came. I should not wonder at all, if the copper of the Pacific yet becomes as great a subject of discord and dissension as the ebony of the Atlantic.
Ronald Takaki (Strangers from a Different Shore)
ON THE HILLS Today I walked on lion-colored hills With only cypresses for company, Until the sunset caught me, turned the brush to copper, set the clouds to one great roof of flame above the earth, so that I walked through fire, beneath fire, and all in beauty. Being alone I could not be alone… My happiness ran through the centuries And linked itself to other happiness In one continual brightness. Looking down, I saw the earth beneath me like a rose Petaled with mountains, Fragrant with deep peace. Collected in: Sisters of the Earth: Women's Prose and Poetry About Nature by Lorraine Anderson
Elizabeth Coatsworth
Thank you for your call yesterday,” she said shyly. “And for the beautiful posy.” “Hardly enough to convey my gratitude,” he said. She had not, of course, supposed the flowers were meant as anything more than an expression of thanks. “We’ll inquire about the Bromyard woman at the Antlers,” she said, grasping at a practical topic. “I have high hopes of her.” “The dahlias reminded me of your hair,” he said pensively. “That deep copper color. Only a little darker.” “Oh,” Callie said. She lifted her skirt and stepped over a tuft of grass. “I do hope she knows how to cook. Truly cook, you know. Something that your mother would like.” “And the roses—pretty and pale, with a flush of pink. Very like your cheeks when you blush.” “A blancmange, perhaps,” Callie said brightly. “Or a custard.” “Your cheeks are nothing like a blancmange, I assure you, my lady. And certainly not a custard.” “A blancmange would be the true test of her skill,” Callie said with difficulty. “I think we should ask her to make a blancmange.” “They’re the classic strawberries and cream. Very English.” “Any sort of fruit trifle would make a good test, I agree,” she said hastily. “But strawberries are out of season.” “Indeed, but they aren’t,” he said.
Laura Kinsale (Lessons in French)
From the outset wallpaper was often colored with pigments that used large doses of arsenic, lead, and antimony, but after 1775 it was frequently soaked in an especially insidious compound called copper arsenite, which was invented by the great but wonderfully hapless Swedish chemist Karl Scheele.* The color was so popular that it became known as Scheele’s green. Later, with the addition of copper acetate, it was refined into an even richer pigment known as emerald green. This was used to color all kinds of things—playing cards, candles, clothing, curtain fabrics, and even some foods. But it was especially popular in wallpaper.
Bill Bryson (At Home: A Short History of Private Life)
I love the way the rain melts the colors together, like a chalk drawing on the sidewalk. There is a moment, just after sunset, when the shops turn on their lights and steam starts to fog up the windows of the cafés. In French, this twilight time implies a hint of danger. It's called entre chien et loup, between the dog and the wolf. It was just beginning to get dark as we walked through the small garden of Palais Royal. We watched as carefully dressed children in toggled peacoats and striped woolen mittens finished the same game of improvised soccer we had seen in the Place Sainte Marthe. Behind the Palais Royal the wide avenues around the Louvre gave way to narrow streets, small boutiques, and bistros. It started to drizzle. Gwendal turned a corner, and tucked in between two storefronts, barely wider than a set of double doors, I found myself staring down a corridor of fairy lights. A series of arches stretched into the distance, topped with panes of glass, like a greenhouse, that echoed the plip-plop of the rain. It was as if we'd stepped through the witch's wardrobe, the phantom tollbooth, what have you, into another era. The Passage Vivienne was nineteenth-century Paris's answer to a shopping mall, a small interior street lined with boutiques and tearooms where ladies could browse at their leisure without wetting the bustles of their long dresses or the plumes of their new hats. It was certainly a far cry from the shopping malls of my youth, with their piped-in Muzak and neon food courts. Plaster reliefs of Greek goddesses in diaphanous tunics lined the walls. Three-pronged brass lamps hung from the ceiling on long chains. About halfway down, there was an antique store selling nothing but old kitchenware- ridged ceramic bowls for hot chocolate, burnished copper molds in the shape of fish, and a pewter mold for madeleines, so worn around the edges it might have belonged to Proust himself. At the end of the gallery, underneath a clock held aloft by two busty angels, was a bookstore. There were gold stencils on the glass door. Maison fondée en 1826.
Elizabeth Bard (Lunch in Paris: A Love Story, with Recipes)
Aurora's Sunday brunch buffet is world-class, desserts or no desserts. Your mouth starts to water the moment you enter and spot the seafood bar on your right- lobsters the color of blood oranges reclining on hillocks of shaved ice, oysters split open, their salty innards on show. Around the corner is an area devoted to cheese, huge rounds of fragrant, fresh Parmesan and a soft cheese with a gray-white rind, oozing and pungent. Behind the cheeses is a magnificent honeycomb hung on a metal frame and dripping down a silver gutter into a small bowl. The entire place smells like heaven- copper pots of hot, fresh bread being carried to tables, aged ham sliced from the bone, the chocolatier dipping soft pralines.
Hannah Tunnicliffe (The Color of Tea)
Two suns burned in a copper sky overhead. One was large and somewhat oblong and gave off a dull orange light. The other was small and possessed a brilliant white incandescence at its core, ringed farther out by a silver corona. Large eruptions of reddish gas flowed from the surface of the orange sun, swirling through the void at a frightening pace, extending toward the smaller, bluish white sun. The flowing gases painted land and sky in startling colors, and whenever the gases wrapped entirely around the smaller sun, the void between them filled with an incandescent brilliance. The light cut the long flatness of space in half, sweeping aside all other illumination and shadow. Then the crimson gas flow would spiral inward and vanish in the blink of an eye, leaving the two suns to shine in the copper sky once more.
Ryu Mitsuse (Ten Billion Days and One Hundred Billion Nights)
They began with a winter soup, lovingly cooked in a copper pot with a shinbone left over from Sunday lunch- But the witch brought in a light bouillon, simmered with the sweetest of baby shallots and scented with ginger and lemongrass and served with croutons so crisp and small that they seemed to vanish in her mouth- The mother brought in the second course. Sausages and potato mash; a comforting dish the child always loved, with sticky onion marmalade- But the witch brought in a brace of quail that had been gorged on ripe figs all their lives, now roasted and stuffed with chestnuts and foie gras and served with a coulis of pomegranate- Now the mother was close to despair. She brought dessert: a stout apple pie, made to her mother's recipe. But the witch had made a pièce montée: a pastel-colored sugared dream of almonds, summer fruit, and pastries like a puff of air, all scented with rose and marshmallow cream, and served with a glass of Château d'Yquem-
Joanne Harris (The Girl with No Shadow (Chocolat, #2))
It only looked depressing compared to scenes from the children’s books—the only books to survive the uprising. Most people doubted those colors in the books, just as they doubted purple elephants and pink birds ever existed, but Holston felt that they were truer than the scene before him. He, like some others, felt something primal and deep when he looked at those worn pages splashed green and blue. Even so, when compared to the stifling silo, that muddy gray view outside looked like some kind of salvation, just the sort of open air men were born to breathe. “Always seems a little clearer in here,” Jahns said. “The view, I mean.” Holston remained silent. He watched a curling piece of cloud break off and move in a new direction, blacks and grays swirling together. “You get your pick for dinner,” the mayor said. “It’s tradition—” “You don’t need to tell me how this works,” Holston said, cutting Jahns off. “It’s only been three years since I served Allison her last meal right here.” He reached to spin the copper ring on his finger out of habit, forgetting he had left it on his dresser hours ago.
Hugh Howey (Wool Omnibus (Silo, #1))
The song just started again, and now I sang it, too. "These strong hands belong to you..." I found a place between two men. The first was about my age, maybe a little younger, with high cheekbones and small eyes. The other was middle-aged, with a wide forehead and bulb nose, and beside him was a man with a striking face, a square, dimpled chin and high cheekbones... and then there was another, and another--all the kinds of faces in all the colors the world calls black: brown and tan and yellow and orange, copper and bronze and gold. "These strong hands belong to you..." They sang--we sang--with no enthusiasm or joy. We used to sing at Bell's, crossing the yard or working on the pile, just like slaves used to sing in Old Slavery, spirituals and work songs, sly lyrics, silly lyrics, yearning for freedom or roasting Massa in nonsense words he couldn't understand. This, though--this was a different kind of singing. I looked from man to man, and they were singing mechanically, eyes front, mouths moving like puppets. Singing this dumb refrain about how much they loved their bosses and loved their work. Nothing spiritual about this. This was something else altogether.
Ben H. Winters (Underground Airlines)
Actually, the sea pirates who had the most to do with the creation of the new government owned human slaves. They used human beings for machinery, and, even after slavery was eliminated, because it was so embarrassing, they and their descendants continued to think of ordinary human beings as machines. *** The sea pirates were white. The people who were already on the continent when the pirates arrived were copper-colored. When slavery was introduced onto the continent, the slaves were black. Color was everything. *** Here is how the pirates were able to take whatever they wanted from anybody else: they had the best boats in the world, and they were meaner than anybody else, and they had gunpowder, which was a mixture of potassium nitrate, charcoal, and sulphur. They touched this seemingly listless powder with fire, and it turned violently into gas. This gas blew projectiles out of metal tubes at terrific velocities. The projectiles cut through meat and bone very easily; so the pirates could wreck the wiring or the bellows or the plumbing of a stubborn human being, even when he was far, far away. The chief weapon of the sea pirates, however, was their capacity to astonish. Nobody else could believe, until it was much too late, how heartless and greedy they were. ***
Kurt Vonnegut Jr. (Breakfast of Champions)
Retired missionaries taught us Arts & Crafts each July at Bible Camp: how to glue the kidney, navy, and pinto bean into mosaics, and how to tool the stenciled butterfly on copper sheets they'd cut for us. At night, after hymns, they'd cut the lights and show us slides: wide-spread trees, studded with corsage; saved women tucking T-shirts into wrap-around batiks; a thatched church whitewashed in the equator's light. Above the hum of the projector I could hear the insects flick their heads against the wind screens, aiming for the brightness of that Africa. If Jesus knocks on your heart, be ready to say, "Send me, O Lord, send me," a teacher told us confidentially, doling out her baggies of dried corn. I bent my head, concentrating hard on my tweezers as I glued each colored kernel into a rooster for Mother's kitchen wall. But Jesus noticed me and started to knock. Already saved, I looked for signs to show me what else He would require. At rest hour, I closed my eyes and flipped my Bible open, slid my finger, ouija-like, down the page, and there was His command: Go and do ye likewise— Let the earth and all it contains hear— Every tree that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire—. Thursday night, at revival service, I held out through Trust and Obey, Standing on the Promises, Nothing But the Blood, but crumpled on Softly and Tenderly Jesus is Calling, promising God, cross my heart, I'd witness to Rhodesia. Down the makeshift aisle I walked with the other weeping girls and stood before the little bit of congregation left singing in their metal chairs. The bathhouse that night was silent, young Baptists moving from shower to sink with the stricken look of nuns. Inside a stall, I stripped, slipped my clothes outside the curtain, and turned for the faucet— but there, splayed on the shower's wall, was a luna moth, the eye of its wings fixed on me. It shimmered against the cement block: sherbet-green, plumed, a flamboyant verse lodged in a page of drab ink. I waved my hands to scare it out, but, blinkless, it stayed latched on. It let me move so close my breath stroked the fur on its animal back. One by one the showers cranked dry. The bathhouse door slammed a final time. I pulled my clothes back over my sweat, drew the curtain shut, and walked into a dark pricked by the lightening bugs' inscrutable morse.
Lynn Powell (Old and New Testaments)
Pike heard a car door slam and once more shifted to the window. Larkin Conner Barkley had gotten out of the limo to meet her father and Kline. She had a heart-shaped face with a narrow nose that bent to the left. Copper-colored hair swirled around her head like coiling snakes. She was wearing tight shorts that started low and finished high, a green T-shirt, and had a small dog slung in a pink designer bag under her arm. It was one of those micro-dogs with swollen eyes that shivered when it was nervous. Pike knew it would bark at the wrong time and get her killed. He turned away from the window.
Robert Crais (The Watchman (Elvis Cole, #11; Joe Pike, #1))
Some October, when the leaves turn gold, ask me if I've done enough to deserve this life I've been given. A pile of sorrows, yes, but joy enough to unbalance the equation. When the sky turns blue as the robes of heaven, ask me if I've made a difference. The road winds through the copper-colored woods; no one sees around the bend. Today, the wind poured out of Canada, a river in flood, bringing down the brilliant leaves, broken sticks and twigs, deserted nests. Go where the current takes you. Some twilight, when the clouds stream in from the west like the breath of God, ask me again. "Some October
Barbara Crooker
I thought about that, copper bodies and silver wings. Eventually both would oxidize, but neither would rust. The copper would turn green and the silver black. Absentmindedly, I said “Unless they’re polished, their colors will fade”. “Like a person” “Pardon?” I returned my gaze to her profile. “People need to be polished, stroked, touched,” her tone was abstract, “and when they are not polished, their colors fade. They change, warp, become something different”.
Penny Reid
She was going to plant a Japanese maple tree on top. She had already procured it, a lovely sapling with pale bark and the most elegant limbs, long and even, fine but strong. It had been one of Edward's favorite trees; the leaves were red in spring, turning by autumn to a most beautiful bright copper color, just like Lily Millington's hair. No, not Lily Millington, she corrected herself, for that had never been her real name. "Albertine," Lucy whispered, thinking back to that mild Hampstead afternoon when she had seen the shock of red in the glass house at the bottom of the garden and Mother had instructed her to take two cups of tea "in the finest china." "Your name was Albertine Bell." Birdie, to those who loved her.
Kate Morton (The Clockmaker's Daughter)
Today, there are 86 known metals. But in ancient times, only seven metals were known: gold, silver, copper, iron, lead, tin, and mercury. We know them now as the Metals of Antiquity, and they would have been familiar to the ancient peoples of Mesopotamia, Egypt, Greece, and Rome. Of these seven metals, gold was the one that captured the human imagination and continued to do so for thousands of years. Gold doesn’t tarnish. It keeps its color. And it doesn’t crumble. Gold seemed indestructible to ancient cultures. And yet it could also be easily worked. A single ounce of gold can be beaten to a thin sheet of gold metal 90 meters square.
Mark Brake (The Science of Harry Potter: The Spellbinding Science Behind the Magic, Gadgets, Potions, and More!)
1930s Functionalism/Modernism Exterior •Facade: Cube shapes and light-color plaster facades, or thin, standing wood panels. •Roof: Flat roof, sometimes clad in copper or sheet metal. •Windows: Long horizontal window bands often with narrow—or no—architraves; large panes of glass without mullions or transoms. Emphasis on the horizontal rather than on the vertical. Windows run around corners to allow more light and to demonstrate the new possibilities of construction and materials. •Outside door: Wooden door with circular glass window. •Typical period details: Houses positioned on plots to allow maximum access to daylight. Curving balconies, often running around the corner; corrugated-iron balcony frontage. Balcony flooring and fixings left visible. The lines of the building are emphasized. Interior •Floors: Parquet flooring in various patterns, tongue-and-groove floorboards, or linoleum. •Interior doors: Sliding doors and flush doors of lamella construction (vaulted, with a crisscross pattern). Masonite had a breakthrough. •Door handles: Black Bakelite, wood, or chrome. •Fireplaces: Slightly curved, brick/stone built. Light-color cement. •Wallpaper/walls: Smooth internal walls and light wallpapers, or mural wallpaper that from a distance resembled a rough, plastered wall. Internal wall and woodwork were light in color but rarely completely white—often muted pastel shades. •Furniture: Functionalism, Bauhaus, and International style influences. Tubular metal furniture, linear forms. Bakelite, chrome, stainless steel, colored glass. •Bathroom: Bathrooms were simple and had most of today’s features. External pipework. Usually smooth white tiles on the walls or painted plywood. Black-and-white chessboard floor. Lavatories with low cisterns were introduced. •Kitchen: Flush cupboard doors with a slightly rounded profile. The doors were partial insets so that only about a third of the thickness was visible on the outside—this gave them a light look and feel. Metal-sprung door latches, simple knobs, metal cup handles on drawers. Wall cabinets went to ceiling height but had a bottom section with smaller or sliding doors. Storage racks with glass containers for dry goods such as salt and flour became popular. Air vents were provided to deal with cooking smells.
Frida Ramstedt (The Interior Design Handbook: Furnish, Decorate, and Style Your Space)
Why do you dislike Fulton so much? I do believe you’re pleased that I’m going on a picnic with an outlaw—a man you said yourself was probably just one step ahead of real trouble.” “My reasons for not liking Fulton are my own business,” Chloe replied. “You’d see what’s wrong with him for yourself if you’d just open your eyes. And I’ve changed my mind about you seeing Mr. Fairfax because Big John says he’s solid as bedrock. Fact is, I think he could bring out a side of you the rest of us have never seen.” Reflecting on the way she’d responded to Steven’s kisses, Emma dropped her eyes. “Maybe that side is better left alone,” she said, feeling a stirring of desire as well as shame. “Nonsense,” Chloe said briskly, “it’s as much a part of you as that lovely copper-colored hair of yours and your blue eyes. You’re a woman now, Emma, and it’s time you stopped trying to mold yourself into a bluestocking.” I’m terrified of that other Emma, she thought. “My mother had a passionate side,” she observed aloud. “It brought her to ruin and made her give up her own children.” “She was weak,” Chloe insisted. Emma recalled how easily Steven had been able to make her submit to him. “Perhaps I’m weak, too.” “Only where one man is concerned, I think,” was Chloe’s reply. She rose from her chair and yawned daintily. “I’ll be off to bed now. It’s been a long day.” “Good night,” Emma said, standing. Chloe kissed her cheek. “Good night, Emma, dear. And don’t stay up half the night berating yourself because some cowboy can make your knees melt. It just means you’re a normal, healthy woman, that’s all.” Emma
Linda Lael Miller (Emma And The Outlaw (Orphan Train, #2))
The Indians painted their faces and bodies for several different reasons—sometimes for protection against the sun, wind, and insects. Some of the markings indicated memberships in various political or religious societies; others represented brave deeds done by the wearer. Many times the designs were merely personal decoration without any particular meaning. The dry coloring matter was carried in small buckskin bags and was mixed with bear or buffalo fat before being rubbed on the skin. Clays containing oxide or iron were used for red; kaolin clay was used for white; black was made from wood charcoal; and green from powdered copper ore. Colors did not represent the same things in every tribe, but generally most tribes used black to represent death, red for human life, blue for sadness or trouble, white for peace or purity, and yellow for joy.
W. Ben Hunt (Indian Crafts & Lore)
She spreads her knees wide, summons her enormous reserves of strength, and pushes once. A girl is born. A girl with black curls and skin the color of copper. A girl with exquisite golden eyes, one a translucent opal that reflects the depth of her emotions.
Dora Levy Mossanen (The Last Romanov)
Lovely One" Lovely one, just as on the cool stone of the spring, the water opens a wide flash of foam, so is the smile of your face, lovely one. Lovely one, with delicate hands and slender feet like a silver pony, walking, flower of the world, thus I see you, lovely one. Lovely one, with a nest of copper entangled on your head, a nest the color of dark honey where my heart burns and rests, lovely one. Lovely one, your eyes are too big for your face, your eyes are too big for the earth. There are countries, there are rivers, in your eyes, my country is your eyes, I walk through them, they light the world through which I walk, lovely one. Lovely one, your breasts are like two loaves made of grainy earth and golden moon, lovely one. Lovely one, your waist, my arm shaped it like a river when it flowed a thousand years through your sweet body, lovely one. Lovely one, there is nothing like your hips, perhaps earth has in some hidden place the curve and the fragrance of your body, perhaps in some place, lovely one. Lovely one, my lovely one, your voice, your skin, your nails, lovely one, my lovely one, your being, your light, your shadow, lovely one, all that is mine, lovely one, all that is mine, my dear, when you walk or rest, when you sing or sleep, when you suffer or dream, always, when you are near or far, always, you are mine, my lovely one, always.
Pablo Neruda (The Captain's Verses)
What are you doing here, Kiernan?” I asked dully. His eyes crinkled up for a second in surprise at my tone. “I came to see you. I know it’s been too long, that I took too long, but…” Two spots of color blossomed on his cheeks, like he didn’t want to go on, but then he forged ahead. “But there were all sorts of ceremonies and things, to welcome her. Everyone was called to court. They even made sure that the Baroness of Mossfeld came,” he added with a puff of laughter and a hopeful glance at me. The holdings of Mossfeld were in the most northern reaches of Thorvaldor and the woman who held them was so eccentric that she had not been seen in court since the crowning of the king. Kiernan and I had spent many hours lying on the grass of the palace gardens, wondering exactly what she was like and what she did with herself stuck out on the boggy, sodden land that was Mossfeld. But I didn’t smile, and I saw Kiernan swallow before he continued. “Anyway, I couldn’t leave. My father, he said that it would be an insult to--to Nalia--if I left to find you while they were still welcoming her. He finally gave me permission yesterday, and I started out this morning.” “I see that. But why?” I asked. There was a tone in my voice I didn’t recognize, as two-edged and keen as a sword blade. It would cut Kiernan, yes, but it would also cut me where I held it. I didn’t care. “This,” I said, throwing my arm out to indicate the cottage and the tub of dye, “isn’t exactly what you’re used to.” He glanced to where I had gestured, blinking and off balance. I shook my head. “No. You’re all fun, all froth and silliness and jokes.” He blanched, hurt, and I almost did myself. It wasn’t true; there was more to Kiernan than that, and we both knew it. Still, I didn’t stop. “There aren’t any pretty women to kiss here, Kiernan, or games to play or pranks to set. No plays to see, no music halls to go to. There aren’t even any libraries for you to run away from.” I laughed, and it was a high, shrill sound, one I didn’t recognize. “Oh, don’t worry. It’s not just you. Look around. There’s nothing here anyone sane would want anything to do with.” “There’s you,” he said quietly. “I came here to find you. I would have gone anywhere,” he added more stridently. “To Two Copper district in Vivaskari or the boggy reaches of Mossfeld or the Nameless God’s frozen hell. You’re my friend. I came to find you.
Eilis O'Neal (The False Princess)
hair—very thick, with a slight wave to it, and all the colors of red and gold mixed; copper and cinnamon, auburn and amber, red and roan and rufous, all mingled together.
Diana Gabaldon (An Outlander Collection, Books 1-3 (Outlander #1-3))
Ninian stared in shock as the stranger met his gaze, noticing the way the color danced like the glow of embers over a coal. It was darkly brilliant around the edges, licking crimson in toward the center, and around the pupil glimmered a fine circle of bright copper flecks. It was stunning.
E.G. Radcliff (The Last Prince (The Coming of Áed, #2))
Let’s just say that if complete and utter chaos were lightning, then he’d be the sort to stand on a hilltop in a thunderstorm wearing wet copper armor and shouting ‘All gods are bastards.
Terry Pratchett (The Color of Magic (Discworld, #1))
Her former life of the brilliant textiles, vibrant patterns and vivid colors of the palace would be replaced with the less radiant but warmer tones and hues of her new home. Where the palace was eye-catching and flamboyant, the Temple of Danray was warm and homey, bursting with the muted colors of the earth. The training fields were weather-beaten and rich, and the buildings full of coppers, bronzes and golds. She noted that the Danrayen warriors and trainees all wore outfits in hues of fawn, mushroom, sage, and nut-brown that helped them blend in with their surroundings, and she was glad for the new wardrobe that helped her to look like she belonged, regardless of how scratchy and stiff she might find the fabric.
Natalia Hernandez (The Name-Bearer (Flowers of Prophecy #1))
if complete and utter chaos were lightning, then he’d be the sort to stand on a hilltop in a thunderstorm wearing wet copper armor and shouting ‘All gods are bastards.
Terry Pratchett (The Color of Magic (Discworld, #1))
magic of a kind, I think. Not the usual sort. I mean, it can turn gold into copper while at the same time it is still gold, it makes men rich by destroying their possessions, it allows the weak to walk fearlessly among thieves, it passes through the strongest doors to leach the most protected treasuries. Even now it has me enslaved—so that I must follow this madman willynilly and protect him from harm. It’s stronger than you, Bravd. It is, I think, more cunning even than you, Weasel.” “What is it called then, this mighty magic?” Rincewind shrugged. “In our tongue it is called reflected-sound-as-of-underground-spirits.
Terry Pratchett (The Color of Magic (Discworld, #1))
In other ways my story didn’t follow the tradition. Its subversive elements attracted little attention, no doubt because I was deliberately sneaky about them. A great many white readers in 1967 were not ready to accept a brown-skinned hero. But they weren’t expecting one. I didn’t make an issue of it, and you have to be well into the book before you realize that Ged, like most of the characters, isn’t white. His people, the Archipelagans, are various shades of copper and brown, shading into black in the South and East Reaches. The light-skinned people among them have far-northern or Kargish ancestors. The Kargish raiders in the first chapter are white. Serret, who both as girl and woman betrays Ged, is white. Ged is copper-brown and his friend Vetch is black. I was bucking the racist tradition, “making a statement”—but I made it quietly, and it went almost unnoticed. Alas, I had no power, at that time, to combat the flat refusal of many cover departments to put people of color on a book jacket. So, through many later, lily-white Geds, Ruth Robbins’s painting for the first edition—the fine, strong profile of a young man with copper-brown skin—was, to me, the book’s one true cover.
Ursula K. Le Guin (A Wizard of Earthsea (Earthsea Cycle, #1))
FBI special agent Emily Parker duck her copper-colored head as she hurried across the Enterprise parking lot on Route 46 in New Jersey
James Patterson (Worst Case (Michael Bennett, #3))
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.
Elizabeth Lim (When You Wish Upon a Star)
Elle shifted the bags from her left arm to the right and tried—subsequently failing—to smother her smile when Darcy opened the door, this time wearing a camel-colored pencil skirt that hugged her hips, and a polka-dotted pussy-bow blouse in off-white that Darcy would probably dub something fancy like eggshell or mascarpone. On anyone else it would’ve been very blah, but the fall of Darcy’s copper hair over one shoulder and her curves made it less boring and more librarian chic. Never before had Elle met someone so pretty that it pissed her off.
Alexandria Bellefleur (Written in the Stars (Written in the Stars, #1))
RAIN LIGHT All day the stars watch from long ago my mother said I am going now when you are alone you will be all right whether or not you know you will know look at the old house in the dawn rain all the flowers are forms of water the sun reminds them through a white cloud touches the patchwork spread on the hill the washed colors of the afterlife that lived there long before you were born see how they wake without a question even though the whole world is burning — W.S. Merwin, from his Pulitzer-Prize winning book The Shadow of Sirius (Copper Canyon Press, 2008).
W.S. Merwin (The Shadow of Sirus)
Red ink made of vermilion (a composition of mercury, sulphur and potash) and cinnabar (native mercuric sulphide) were employed in the writing of the titles as was blue ink made of indigo, cobalt or oxide of copper. Tyrian purple was used for coloring the parchment or vellum.
David Nunes Carvalho (Forty Centuries of Ink or, a chronological narrative concerning ink and its backgrounds, introducing incidental observations and deductions, parallels ... to-day and an epitome of chemico-legal ink.)
Her hair was the color of an angry sunset, and it fell to her waist in ripples of copper and red. Her steps-deliberate, prideful, measured-took her eastward along Evans Avenue through clouds of dust raised by the summertime street repair. People stared at the small, wirestrung harp she carried tucked under her arm. She did not appear to notice.
Gael Baudino (Gossamer Axe)
She was a thinner, prettier version of her mother with huge sea-green eyes and straight, long hair the color of golden copper. She hadn’t made peace with her small breasts, huge flat feet or the freckles that spilled across her pert nose but Glorie said she was nice-looking enough to have modeled for any one of the mermaid prints that hung on the walls.
Eleyne-Mari Sharp (Inn Lak'ech)
Shaina got to her feet and clenched her hands. Her eyes, chestnut-colored, almost copper in the fire gloom, were wide and full of hunger, but her mouth was set.
Tanith Lee (Volkhavaar)
I remember when I had gowns in every color and the dishes on the tables were white to match the Colier hair. I remember when the bell in the tower was copper, its chime light and clear. Things that were once feather-light now take several men to pick up. Parts that once carried the colors of age and history now glisten as if new. Even the roses in the atrium have been gold-touched, never again to sprout a new bud or fill the air with their perfume.
Raven Kennedy (Glint (Plated Prisoner, #2))
Twenty, thirty yards or more the nymphs and dryads and summer founts sprang up in unraveled hieroglyphs. And the sand in the dying light was the color of molten copper on which was now slashed a message that any man in any time might read and savor down the years.
Ray Bradbury (A Medicine for Melancholy and Other Stories)
Maester,” said Lady Melisandre, her deep voice flavored with the music of the Jade Sea. “You ought take more care.” As ever, she wore red head to heel, a long loose gown of flowing silk as bright as fire, with dagged sleeves and deep slashes in the bodice that showed glimpses of a darker bloodred fabric beneath. Around her throat was a red gold choker tighter than any maester’s chain, ornamented with a single great ruby. Her hair was not the orange or strawberry color of common red-haired men, but a deep burnished copper that shone in the light of the torches. Even her eyes were red … but her skin was smooth and white, unblemished, pale as cream. Slender she was, graceful, taller than most knights, with full breasts and narrow waist and a heart-shaped face. Men’s eyes that once found her did not quickly look away, not even a maester’s eyes. Many called her beautiful. She was not beautiful. She was red, and terrible, and red. “I … thank you, my lady.” “A man your age must look to where he steps,” Melisandre said courteously. “The night is dark and full of terrors.
George R.R. Martin (A Clash of Kings (A Song of Ice and Fire, #2))
Infatuation" Speak to me in colors– thus tinted are the windows to your soul. Might that I marvel in the mystery as it skirts ‘cross their pond. And yet stilled are the words; they lie like copper upon my tongue–tarnished. For I cannot find them enough to say “I love you.
Randall I. Charles
Actually, the sea pirates who had the most to do with the creation of the new government owned human slaves. They used human beings for machinery, and, even after slavery was eliminated, because it was so embarrassing, they and their descendants continued to think of ordinary humans beings as machines. The sea pirates were white. The people who were already on the continent when the pirates arrived were copper-colored. When slavery was introduced onto the continent, the slaves were black. Color was everything.
Kurt Vonnegut Jr. (Breakfast of Champions)
A long, black cloak with embroidered golden edges fell from his broad shoulders, and she could see the large, firm muscles rippling under the thick layer of dark damask fabric. The glistening strands of his sleek ebony hair fell across his forehead in flawless disarray, accentuating the amazing bone structure of his harmoniously proportional face. The copper-colored rings around his charcoal irises shone brighter than ever. His gaze was positively hypnotic. Everything about him radiated ethereal sophistication and supernatural dominance. Just as the rumors had said, this man was no human emperor. He was an omnipotent, divine creature that breathed complete perfection.
Astrid Jane Ray (The Queen of Aessarion)
Just don’t talk about it,” hissed Hugh. Twoflower was already thumbing through his book. “What’s he doing?” said Broadman, arms akimbo. “It tells him what to say. I know it sounds ridiculous,” muttered Hugh. “How can a book tell a man what to say?” “I wish for an accommodation, a room, lodgings, the lodging house, full board, are your rooms clean, a room with a view, what is your rate for one night?” said Twoflower in one breath. Broadman looked at Hugh. The beggar shrugged. “He’s got plenty money,” he said. “Tell him it’s three copper pieces, then. And that Thing will have to go in the stable.” “?” said the stranger. Broadman held up three thick red fingers and the man’s face was suddenly a sunny display of comprehension. He reached into his pouch and laid three large gold pieces in Broadman’s palm. Broadman stared at them. They represented about four times the worth of the Broken Drum, staff included. He looked at Hugh. There was no help there. He looked at the stranger. He swallowed. “Yes,” he said, in an unnaturally high voice. “And then there’s meals, o’course. Uh. You understand, yes? Food. You eat. No?” He made the appropriate motions. “Fut?” said the little man. “Yes,” said Broadman, beginning to sweat.
Terry Pratchett (The Color of Magic (Discworld, #1))
would prance around the place smoking cigarettes through an outrageously long holder, wearing a russet curly wig and a long copper-colored gown that hung from her bony frame, conjuring to Alex’s mind the image of a man-sized cockroach standing on its hind legs.
Vince Vogel (A Cross to Bear (Jack Sheridan Mystery #1))
Copper yipped once, and suddenly the blue hatchamarks that graced his body disappeared, leaving him to shine in all of his legendary glory. The normal white fur on a fox showed up as the dark brown of deep earth, his typically orange fur the bright red of hot flames, his paws the color of a starry night and his eyes, one green and one blue shone with happiness. Wei-Vi pointed, his jaw dropping. “W... what... what is that?” “This,” Ellie said. “Is a legendary hatchamob.
Pixel Ate (Hatchamob: Book 6)
And then there was the food: saffron-laced butter rice, cooked in a rose-shaped copper pan until seared with a perfect crust, decanted right at the table, and drizzled with a tart cherry sauce; sorshi balls—coconut, cherimoya, and sugar apple—dusted with different-colored powdered sugars; hot-spiced dakerra, served a perfect medium rare, along with herbed sag bread for rolls; and, to crown it all, a delicate kevra sorbet.
Jenn Lyons (The House of Always (A Chorus of Dragons, #4))
her gaze to the copper-colored foal who sniffed his way up her arm. “Hmm… His coloring and thick body remind
Misty M. Beller (The Lady and the Mountain Man (Mountain Dreams, #1))
The layers of his gleaming black hair were thick and neatly cut, and his tanned face glowed from a precise shave. He had a long, straight nose and a voluptuary's mouth. And he had a pair of remarkable blue eyes that approximated no other shade she had ever seen. Except, perhaps, at the shop where the local chemist made batches of ink by boiling Indigofera plants and copper sulfate together for days until they formed a blue so dark and deep that it approached violet. And yet his eyes did not have the angelic quality one might associate with such a color. They were shrewd, seasoned, as if he had gazed far too often at an unsavory side of life that she herself had never seen.
Lisa Kleypas (Suddenly You)
Unfortunately, nature is very much a now-you-see-it, now-you-don't affair. A fish flashes, then dissolves in the water before my eyes like so much salt. Deer apparently ascend bodily into heaven, the brightest oriole fades into leaves. These disappearances stun me into stillness and concentration; they say of nature that it conceals with a grand nonchalance, and they say of vision that it is a deliberate gift, ... For a week last September migrating red-winged blackbirds were feeding heavily down by the creek at the back of the house. One day I went out to investigate the racket: I walked up to a tree, an Osage orange, and a hundred birds flew away. They simply materialized out of the tree. I saw a tree, then a whisk of color, then a tree again. I walked closer and another hundred blackbirds took flight. Not a branch, not a twig budged: the birds were apparently weightless as well as invisible. Or, it was as if the leaves of the Osage orange had been freed from a spell in the form of red-winged blackbirds; they flew from the tree, caught my eye in the sky, and vanished. When I looked again at the tree the leaves had reassembled as if nothing had happened. Finally I walked directly to the trunk of the tree and a final hundred, the real diehards, appeared, spread, and vanished. How could so many hide in the tree without my seeing them? The Osage orange, unruffled, looked just as it had looked from the house, when three hundred red-winged blackbirds cried from its crown. I looked downstream where they flew, and they were gone. Searching, I couldn't spot one. I wandered downstream to force them to play their hand, but they'd crossed the creek and scattered. One show to a customer. These appearances catch at my throat; they are the free gifts, the bright coppers at the roots of trees.
Annie Dillard (Pilgrim at Tinker Creek)
BRIEF HISTORY OF TRADE BETWEEN AFRICA AND EUROPE Hereditary slavery had been around since the times of Greece and Rome and was nothing new. But with the Renaissance, Europe introduced certain novelties: never before had slavery been determined by skin color, and never before had the sale of human flesh been the brightest light in the world of business. During the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries, Africa sold slaves and bought rifles: it traded hands for arms. Then during the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, Africa delivered gold, diamonds, copper, ivory, rubber, and coffee in exchange for Bibles: it traded the riches of the earth for the promise of heaven.
Eduardo Galeano (Mirrors: Stories of Almost Everyone)
The man in front of me was different. His frame was that of a Caucasian Nordic, topping mine by nearly thirty centimeters, but the face was at odds. It began African, broad and deep ebony, but the color ended like a mask under the eyes, and the lower half was divided along the line of the nose, pale copper on the left, corpse white on the right. The nose was both fleshy and aquiline and mediated well between the top and bottom halves of the face, but the mouth was a mismatch of left and right sides that left the lips peculiarly twisted. Long straight black hair was combed manelike back from the forehead, shot through on one side with pure white. The hands, immobile on the metal table, were equipped with claws similar to the ones I’d seen on the giant Freak Fighter in Licktown, but the fingers were long and sensitive. He had breasts, impossibly full on a torso so overmuscled. The eyes, set in jet skin, were a startling pale green. Kadmin had freed himself from conventional perceptions of the physical. In an earlier age, he would have been a shaman; here, the centuries of technology had made him more. An electronic demon, a malignant spirit that dwelled in altered carbon and emerged only to possess flesh and wreak havoc.
Richard K. Morgan (Altered Carbon (Takeshi Kovacs, #1))
As Lara stared in the square Queen Anne mirror poised on the chest of drawers in her room, it seemed that the atmosphere changed, the air suddenly heavy and pressing. It was so quiet in the cottage that she could hear her own mad heartbeat. She caught sight of something in the mirror, a deliberate movement that paralyzed her. Someone had entered the cottage. Skin prickling, Lara stood in frozen silence and stared into the mirror as another reflection joined her own. A man's bronzed face... short, sun-streaked brown hair... dark brown eyes... the hard, wide mouth she remembered so well. Tall... massive chest and shoulders... a physical power and assurance that made the room seem to shrink around him. Lara's breath stopped. She wanted to run, to cry out, faint, but it seemed that she had been turned to stone. He stood just behind her, his head and shoulders looming far above hers. His gaze held hers in the mirror... The eyes were the same color, yet... he had never looked at her like this, with an intensity that made every inch of her skin burn. His was the hard gaze of a predator. She shook in fright as his hands moved gently to her hair. One by one he slipped the confining pins from the shining sable mass, and set them on the dresser before her. Lara watched him, quivering with each light tug on her hair. "It's not true," she whispered. He spoke in Hunter's voice, deep and slightly raspy. "I'm not a ghost, Lara." She tore her gaze from the mirror and stumbled around to face him. He was so much thinner, his body lean, almost rawboned, his heavy muscles thrown into stark prominence. His skin was tanned to a copper blaze that was far too exotic for an Englishman. And his hair had lightened to the mixed gold and brown of a griffin's feathers.
Lisa Kleypas (Stranger in My Arms)
Our word “Phoenician” comes from ancient Greek. Phoinikes, “red people,” was what the Greeks called them, probably in reference to their copper skin color.
David Sacks (Letter Perfect: The Marvelous History of Our Alphabet From A to Z)
Sunrise, Grand Canyon We stand on the edge, the fall Into depth, the ascent Of light revelatory, the canyon walls moving Up out of Shadow, lit Colors of the layers cutting Down through darkness, sunrise as it Passes a Precipitate of the river, its burnt tangerine Flare brief, jagged Bleeding above the far rim for a split Second I have imagined You here with me, watching day’s onslaught Standing in your bones-they seem Implied in the record almost By chance- fossil remains held In abundance in the walls, exposed By freeze and thaw, beautiful like a theory stating Who we are is Carried forward by the x Chromosome down the matrilineal line Recessive and riverine, you like Me aberrant and bittersweet... Riding the high Colorado Plateau as the opposing Continental plates force it over A mile upward without buckling, smooth Tensed, muscular fundament, your bones Yet to be wrapped around mine- This will come later, when I return To your place and time... The geologic cross section Of the canyon Dropping From where I stand, hundreds millions of shades of terra cotta, of copper Manganese and rust, the many varieties of stone- Silt, sand, and slate, even “green River rock...”my body voicing its immense Genetic imperatives, human geology falling away Into a Depth i am still unprepared for The canyon cutting down to The great unconformity, a layer So named by the lack Of any fossil evidence to hypothesize About and date such A remote time by, at last no possible Retrospective certainties... John Barton
Rick Kempa (Going Down Grand: Poems from the Canyon)