Peach Colour Quotes

Life below the surface is neither simple nor monotonous. The subterranean, contrary to what most people think, is bustling with activity. As you tunnel deep down, you might be surprised to see the soil take on unexpected shades. Rusty red, soft peach, warm mustard, lime green, rich turquoise … Humans teach their children to paint the earth in one colour alone. They imagine the sky in blue, the grass in green, the sun in yellow and the earth entirely in brown.

Sent as a present from Annam A red cockatoo. Coloured like the peach-tree blossom, Speaking with the speech of men. And they did to it what is always done To the learned and eloquent. They took a cage with stout bars And shut it up inside.

Colour my world with sunset peach and betwixt the dying day and blooming night, we shall dance across the impatient stars of twilight...

Slowly, dawn was breaking. Streaks of colour – peach bellinis, orange martinis, strawberry margaritas, frozen negronis – streamed above the horizon, east to west.

I’ve always been enchanted by the show of electrical abstractions, within one’s mind; so colourful, myriad and seemingly contingent, which appear, sparkle, glimmer and dissolve into that infinite gloom which one is trying to vanquish with sleep.

All down the stone steps on either side were periwinkles in full flower, and she could now see what it was that had caught at her the night before and brushed, wet and scented, across her face. It was wistaria. Wistaria and sunshine . . . she remembered the advertisement. Here indeed were both in profusion. The wistaria was tumbling over itself in its excess of life, its prodigality of flowering; and where the pergola ended the sun blazed on scarlet geraniums, bushes of them, and nasturtiums in great heaps, and marigolds so brilliant that they seemed to be burning, and red and pink snapdragons, all outdoing each other in bright, fierce colour. The ground behind these flaming things dropped away in terraces to the sea, each terrace a little orchard, where among the olives grew vines on trellises, and fig-trees, and peach-trees, and cherry-trees. The cherry-trees and peach-trees were in blossom--lovely showers of white and deep rose-colour among the trembling delicacy of the olives; the fig-leaves were just big enough to smell of figs, the vine-buds were only beginning to show. And beneath these trees were groups of blue and purple irises, and bushes of lavender, and grey, sharp cactuses, and the grass was thick with dandelions and daisies, and right down at the bottom was the sea. Colour seemed flung down anyhow, anywhere; every sort of colour piled up in heaps, pouring along in rivers....

But it seemed to him the world was brighter, more intense, more alive than he had remembered. Colours were more vibrant, shimmering; the scents of ordinary things, wet pavement, bricks in sunlight, unripe peaches, felt layered and dizzyingly complex.

The house was decorated in unrelieved white and black. The people were, too. If it were up to me, I would carry a great big paintbrush around with me all the time, splashing color everywhere, decorating the world with peach and mauve, pink and lavender, orange and aquamarine. These folks seemed to think leeching the world of all color was cool. I decided they all must be deeply depressed.

...she wore peach-coloured robes with imprints of moons and banyan trees. Her long hair flowed into the floor, turning into the vast expanse of the sky halfway down her back; it looked as though she was dragging the heavens behind her, beautiful and terrible.

Trying to divert my mind, I look around the tiny living room. The peach of the faded wall reminds me why I hate the colour so much – it reminds me of this home and many other things. I avert my gaze and it lands on the wrinkled brown curtains with a tiny hole at the bottom. I wonder when was it washed last. The sofa set, the centre table, the diwan, everything needs a replacement. Even the memories.

There were miniature fruit trees growing chocolate-dipped plumbs and brown-sugar-glazed peaches. Wedges of cheese peeking out of miniature treasure chests made of pastry. Upside-down turtle shells filled with soup. Finger sandwiches shaped like actual fingers. Colourful plates of salted pink and red radishes. Water with lavendar bubbles, and peach-coloured wine with berries at the bottom of the glass.

Kami Castillo My Books Browse ▾ Community ▾ All down the stone steps on either side were periwinkles in full flower, and she could now see what it was that had caught at her the night before and brushed, wet and scented, across her face. It was wistaria. Wistaria and sunshine . . . she remembered the advertisement. Here indeed were both in profusion. The wistaria was tumbling over itself in its excess of life, its prodigality of flowering; and where the pergola ended the sun blazed on scarlet geraniums, bushes of them, and nasturtiums in great heaps, and marigolds so brilliant that they seemed to be burning, and red and pink snapdragons, all outdoing each other in bright, fierce colour. The ground behind these flaming things dropped away in terraces to the sea, each terrace a little orchard, where among the olives grew vines on trellises, and fig-trees, and peach-trees, and cherry-trees. The cherry-trees and peach-trees were in blossom--lovely showers of white and deep rose-colour among the trembling delicacy of the olives; the fig-leaves were just big enough to smell of figs, the vine-buds were only beginning to show. And beneath these trees were groups of blue and purple irises, and bushes of lavender, and grey, sharp cactuses, and the grass was thick with dandelions and daisies, and right down at the bottom was the sea. Colour seemed flung down anyhow, anywhere; every sort of colour piled up in heaps, pouring along in rivers....

Each year before the first rain after the harvest in Spring, I would look at the dry peach tree that I know so well at our backyard and anticipating that in summer it will be covered in an overgrown hedge unless my father who was a committed gardner of note take a weekend off from Jo'burg during the pruning season to prune it. Even now, I still remember with crystal clarity my childhood mood - warm days in Schoonoord with rich nostalgia of green scenery and flowers flowering everywhere.  One evening I was sitting at the veranda of our firehut looking at the orange tree between the plat (flat - roofed) house and the big L - shaped house - the tree served as a shelter from the sun for the drinking water pot next to the plat house - suddenly the weather changed, the wind howled, the tree swayed, the loose corrugated iron sheets on roof of he house clattered and clanged, the open windows shuts with a bang and the sky made night a day, and I was overwhelmed with that feeling of childhood joy at the approaching rain. All of a sudden, the deafening of steady pouring rain. The raging storm beat the orange tree leaves while I sat there remembering that where the orange tree stood used to be our first house, a small triangular   shaped mokhukhu ((tin house) made of red painted corrugated iron sheets salvaged from demolishing site in Witbank, also remembering that my aunt's mokhukhu was also made of the same type and colour of corrugated iron sheets. The ashen ground drunk merily until it was quenched and the floods started rolling down Leolo Mountains, and what one could hear above the deafening steady pouring rain was the bellowing of the nearby Manyane Dale, and if it was daylight one could have seen the noble Sebilwane River rolling in sullen glide. After about fifteen minutes of steady downpour, and rumbling sounds, the storm went away in a series of small, badly lit battle scenes.

Everything reminded him of something else: the fragrance of a peach-skin was like opening his stamp-album, the chack-chack of the wheatear not only recalled mist on the hills, but also reminded him of foxgloves, droplets of rain tapping from the mauve bells on to a dock leaf or fern. Ferns reminded him of his mother's soap, the luxurious tan-coloured lozenges that came to her in a box each christmas and birthday, and other scents too, the yellow of oriental jasmine, the pink of tea-rose, the green of mimosa. For all of these scents he could find a correlative within the spectrum of his own experience.

I need to intercept the yolk before it reaches the baked beans, because if it merges with the beans, going that rank peach colour, it’ll be game over.

Imagine you are about to bite into an apple. Imagine never having bitten into an apple before. The fruit at your lips is an unknown thing. It might burst like a tomato! Yield like a peach! Snap like a carrot! You have no idea about its insides: what colour or texture. You have no reason to suspect it will be cloud-white, bloodless, foamy, crisp. An apple, could be like an orange: segmented, oozy. An apple could be salty and jaw-breaking like a rock. This is what it was like for me, the first time I heard Chopin play the piano.

MY WIFE'S GREY HAIR The beautiful rainbow that follows the storm, The red glow at sunset, so rich and warm- There are beautiful flowers with perfume so rare, And the beauty of my girl, tho’ she now has grey hair. Note the beauty of the autumn leaves Their colours more tranquil than the blossoming trees- Tho’ summer’s gone the beauty will stay, Like a beautiful lady when her hair has turned grey Some may see you now as old, But I see silver next to gold. The young green peach upon the tree Holds no desire for boys like me- I’ll bide my time to maturity And pick ripe peaches off the tree! The changing times, as youth to man, The flowing stream from gravel to sand, So life flows by with seldom a care- 'Cos in the end, love, we’ll all have grey hair.

MY WIFE'S GREY HAIR The beautiful rainbow that follows the storm, The red glow at sunset, so rich and warm- There are beautiful flowers with perfume so rare, And the beauty of my girl, tho’ she now has grey hair. Note the beauty of the autumn leaves Their colours more tranquil than the blossoming trees- Tho’ summer’s gone the beauty will stay, Like a beautiful lady when her hair has turned grey Some may see you now as old, But I see silver next to gold. The young green peach upon the tree Holds no desire for boys like me- I’ll bide my time to maturity And pick ripe peaches off the tree! The changing times, as youth to man, The flowing stream from gravel to sand, So life flows by with seldom a care- “cos in the end, love, we’ll all have grey hair.

Australian girls nearly always begin to think of 'lovers and nonsense', as middlefolks call it, long before their English aged sisters do... And herein lies the chief defect of the very young Australian girl. She is like a peach; a beautiful, smooth, rich peach, that has come to ripeness, almost in a day, and that hastens to rub off the soft, delicate bloom that is its chief charm, just to show its bright, warm colouring more clearly.

March 6: Emmeline Snively, head of the Blue Book Modeling Agency, sends Norma Jeane to Joseph Jasgur for test shots. In The Birth of Marilyn, Jeannie Sakol reports Jasgur’s first impressions: “What he saw was not too encouraging. Her hips were too broad and would photograph even broader if he didn’t take special pains. Her loose pink wool sweater and check pedal pushers only exaggerated the imperfections of her figure and emphasized her need to lose some weight. As for her hair, it was thick and wild and reddish brown, its natural curliness obviously impossible to control—although she had equally obviously tried to do just that with a saucy beret. The colour, Jasgur realized, was totally wrong for her blue eyes and peach blossom skin tones. If ever a girl should be blonde it was this girl who was so patiently enduring his professional scrutiny. . . . She didn’t have a chance, he thought, until he looked into her eyes. . . . A lovely vivid blue, they gazed at him with a calm and quiet dignity, neither arrogant nor seductive. There was something there. Jasgur shakes his head with amazement that has never left him in forty-five years. ‘I never thought that something would take her so far.’” He finds her shy and anxious. Other photographers report similar experiences with her. But in front of the camera, Jasgur remembered, “[S]he was relaxed, no trace of self-consciousness. Even in those formative days, I think she trusted the camera more than she trusted people.

Stephanie Garber, Legendary > Quotes > Quotable Quote (?) “There were miniature fruit trees growing chocolate-dipped plumbs and brown-sugar-glazed peaches. Wedges of cheese peeking out of miniature treasure chests made of pastry. Upside-down turtle shells filled with soup. Finger sandwiches shaped like actual fingers. Colourful plates of salted pink and red radishes. Water with lavender bubbles, and peach-coloured wine with berries at the bottom of the glass.