Petrol Smell Quotes

Paris had its sweetest smell, the smell of chestnut trees in bloom and of petrol with a few grains of dust that crack under your teeth like pepper. In the darknes the danger seemed to grow. You could smell the suffering in the air, in the silence. Everyone looked at their house and thought, "Tomorrow it will be in ruins, tomorrow I'l have nothing left.

Walking around, even on a bad day, I would see things – I mean just the things that were in front of me. People’s faces, the weather, traffic. The smell of petrol from the garage, the feeling of being rained on, completely ordinary things. And in that way even the bad days were good, because I felt them and remembered feeling them. There was something delicate about living like that – like I was an instrument and the world touched me and reverberated inside me. After a couple of months, I started to miss days. Sometimes I would fall asleep without remembering to write anything, but then other nights I’d open the book and not know what to write – I wouldn’t be able to think of anything at all. When I did make entries, they were increasingly verbal and abstract: song titles, or quotes from novels, or text messages from friends. By spring I couldn’t keep it up anymore. I started to put the diary away for weeks at a time – it was just a cheap black notebook I got at work – and then eventually I’d take it back out to look at the entries from the previous year. At that point, I found it impossible to imagine ever feeling again as I had apparently once felt about rain or flowers. It wasn’t just that I failed to be delighted by sensory experiences – it was that I didn’t actually seem to have them anymore. I would walk to work or go out for groceries or whatever and by the time I came home again I wouldn’t be able to remember seeing or hearing anything distinctive at all. I suppose I was seeing but not looking – the visual world just came to me flat, like a catalogue of information. I never looked at things anymore, in the way I had before.

At the top of the slope on the perimeter of the site, overlooking six lanes of motorway, is a diner frequented by lorry drivers who have either just unloaded or or are waiting to pick up their cargo. Anyone nursing a disappointment with domestic life would find relief in this tiled, brightly lit cafeteria with its smells of fries and petrol, for it has the reassuring feel of a place where everyone is just passing through--and which therefore has none of the close-knit or convivial atmosphere which could cast a humiliating light on one's own alienation. It suggests itself as an ideal location for Christmas lunch for those let down by their families.

The sharp scents made my throat ache. I had been up such hillsides before, and smelled these same spring scents. But then the pine and grass scent had been diluted with the smell of petrol fumes from the road below and the voices of day trippers replaced those of the jays. Last time I walked such a path, the ground was littered with sandwich wrappers and cigarette butts instead of mallow blossoms and violets. Sandwich wrappers seemed a reasonable enough price to pay, I supposed, for such blessings of civilization as antibiotics and telephones, but just for the moment, I was willing to settle for the violets. I badly needed a little peace, and I felt it here.

Walking around, even on a bad day, I would see things—I mean just the things that were in front of me. People’s faces, the weather, traffic. The smell of petrol from the garage, the feeling of being rained on, completely ordinary things. And in that way even the bad days were good, because I felt them and remembered feeling them. There was something delicate about living like that—like I was an instrument and the world touched me and reverberated inside me.

Squeezing the Bubotubers was disgusting, but oddly satisfying. As each swelling was popped, a large amount of thick yellowish green liquid burst forth, which smelled strongly of petrol.

even on a bad day, I would see things—I mean just the things that were in front of me. People’s faces, the weather, traffic. The smell of petrol from the garage, the feeling of being rained on, completely ordinary things. And in that way even the bad days were good, because I felt them and remembered feeling them.

First draft blues: "He tested the stick and glanced at the set handbrake. With his feet he felt the accelerator, the brake, the clutch. Backwards, but otherwise just the same, and comforting in a solid, mechanical way. It even smelled right, oil, petrol, lubricated warm metal, and the polished windshield seemed transparent in the night’s silver flood.

I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this to you before, but a few years ago, I started keeping a diary, which I called ‘the life book’. I began with the idea of writing one short entry each day, just a line or two, describing something good. I suppose by ‘good’ I must have meant something that made me happy or brought me pleasure. I went back to look at it the other day, and the early entries are all from that autumn, almost six years ago now. Dry upturned sycamore leaves scuttling like claws along the South Circular Road. The artificial buttered taste of popcorn in the cinema. Pale-yellow sky in the evening, Thomas Street draped in mist. Things like that. I didn’t miss a day through all of September, October, November that year. I could always think of something nice, and sometimes I would even do things for the purpose of putting them in the book, like taking a bath or going for a walk. At the time I felt like I was just absorbing life, and at the end of the day I never had to strain to think of anything good I had seen or heard. It just came to me, and even the words came, because my only aim was to get the image down clearly and simply so that I would later remember how it felt. And reading those entries now, I do remember what I felt, or at least what I saw and heard and noticed. Walking around, even on a bad day, I would see things—I mean just the things that were in front of me. People’s faces, the weather, traffic. The smell of petrol from the garage, the feeling of being rained on, completely ordinary things. And in that way even the bad days were good, because I felt them and remembered feeling them. There was something delicate about living like that—like I was an instrument and the world touched me and reverberated inside me.

I love start gazing in morning, noon and night and anytime, I love smell of soil while raining, I love breezy air, I love twilight, I love petrol or any other natural hydrocarbon smell, I love Rain, Thunder, lightening and other space phenomenon, I love new hard copy book smell, I love taking microscopy pictures of micro organisms and soil, I love wearing white coat and I love hand shakes, small fights that leads to good memories to keep, I did not include my food or dynamic capabilities, music, those are according to situations but the things I mentioned above are my deep interests - But these things I show only If I like the person, else I ignore

The single eye of his machine collects the event: this fragile body, which, shed of clothes, is now like a dark sapling whipped about in the wind. The tire is flung around the boy. He is losing consciousness but revives with sudden panic when he is doused with petrol. From the distance, two traffic officers, the ones they call Yellow Fever, watch. The splashing liquid is lighter than water, it is fragrant, it drips off him, beads in his woolly hair. He glistens. The begging stops. He stops begging and he is not yet lit. The whites of his eyes are bright as lamps. And then only the last thing, which is soon supplied. The fire catches with a loud gust, and the crowd gasps and inches back. The boy dances furiously but, hemmed down by the tire, quickly goes prone, and still. The most vivid moment in the fire’s life passes, and its color dulls and fizzes out. The crowd, chattering and sighing, momentarily sated, melts away. The man with the digicam lowers his machine. He, too, disappears. Traffic quickly reconstitutes around the charred pile. The air smells of rubber, meat, and exhaust.

She felt the sun on her skin, heard birdsong over people talking, revving cars, smelled petrol fumes and hot pastry, and the words echoed through her head, unbidden: this is what happiness feels like.

My daughters-in-law, you know..." she shrugs her rounded shoulders resignedly. "They are such sweet girls, good mothers, kind to me..." "And such bad cooks!" we all say in unison, the refrain of every Leftovers Brunch in our history. "Tell us," Benji says, all of us relishing the litany and details of failed dishes. "Well, Gina, you know, she is Italian, so she brings sausages in peppers, which smells like feet. And she takes the beautiful sausages that Kurt makes at the butcher shop and cooks them until they are like hard little rocks. Ellie, she is afraid of getting fat, so she makes cheesecake with no-fat Greek yogurt and Egg Beaters and fake sugar that tastes mostly of petrol. Lisa wanted to do stuffing, and it was so dry that you could barely choke it down. I had to make a second batch of gravy in the middle of dinner because everyone was trying to soak it so that it didn't kill us." "But you made that beautiful turkey, and those dumplings are like pillows," Andrea says. "And your famous German potato salad," Eloise says. "And all of those desserts from the bakery," I say, dreaming of crispy, sweet pastries, oozing custard and homemade jam and dolloped with whipped cream. "A good meal in spite of the girls." Lois beams, knowing that we all really mean our compliments.

Have we got a room for them?” “We have. But not here. On the kibbutz. A couple of their girls have taken them over. Reliable people. They will be right.” “They may well need be. Have we got time to get up this afternoon? What time is nightfall here?” “You’ve got two hours, Thomas.” “Not enough by the time we’ve changed into flying gear and got back here. Cockpit familiarisation only. How are you off for ground crew?” “Two flight sergeants and a sufficiency of aircraftmen of all grades. All of them have worked Hurricanes before. Three of them were with you, in fact, in the Desert. That’s one area in which we have not been let down. I have painted the planes up in three Flights, numbers and colours. Serial numbers are on as well. You are Red One, I presume?” “I am. Jack is Green One. Patrick Red Two. Michael, Blue Two.” “Got you. Let’s get you sitting in. We can get the belts right and adjust the seats. I’ll put a parachute pack in each.” The smell was immediately familiar – glycol and petrol predominating, a faint overlay of sweat. Thomas sat in and instinctively set the seat just so and twitched the belts exactly as he wanted them. He glanced at the controls and examined the screen in front of him for specks and cracks. “Flight! There’s a grease smear lower left and what looks like a row of paint specks across the right.” “Let me see… Got ‘em, sir! Balderstone, you ‘orrible object! You was told to clean the screen and polish it good!” “Told us to get it done afore us were finished, Sarge. Ain’t finished yet!” “You bloody well will be if this screen is not perfect one hour from now!” “Yes, Sarge.” “A useless object, sir, but he was a window cleaner before he got called up. One thing, the only thing, he can do, is clean a screen.” “Get him to work them all then, Flight. The screens must be spotless, you know that. A Me at two thousand yards looks like nothing more than a spot.” “Knows that, sir. Not to worry, sir. Mr Mason-Holmes a little bit new, is he, sir?” “Green as grass. Don’t worry about him. Either he’ll learn quickly or…” “Exactly, sir. He’ll be a veteran at the end of the week or we won’t have to concern ourselves about him.” Thomas nodded. They looked at Patrick and shrugged simultaneously. “Now then, sir. We have twelve ground crews exactly, one for each pilot, and likely one spare by the end of the week for rotation purposes.” “I’ll leave that with you, Flight. Don’t let your people get too tired. If needs be, I can ground

Shea parked her truck at the village petrol station and slipped from the cab. Almost immediately she was uneasy, not certain why. Few villagers were out and about at such an early hour. She leaned casually against the truck, taking a long look around. She could detect no one, but she felt eyes on her, someone or something watching her. The feeling was strong. Lifting her chin, she forced herself to ignore her overactive imagination while she filled the truck, its reserve tank, and the two tanks for her generator. The feeling of being watched became so strong, it made her skin crawl. Without warning something pushed at her mind. Not Jacques. It wasn’t his familiar touch. Fear slammed into her, but she kept her cool, professional mask, her single-minded purpose to finish her tasks as quickly as possible. Whatever it was retreated, unable to penetrate. Shea drove down the nearly deserted street and parked close to the small medical clinic. This time, as she slid from the seat, she searched the shadows around her carefully, using every sense she could. Sight. Smell. Hearing. Instinct. There was someone, something. It had followed her, was near. She could feel it, but she couldn’t find it. Jacques? She touched his mind gently, suddenly afraid she was feeling something that was happening to him. I am awaiting your return. She sensed his tiredness. The morning light was even harder on him than on her. She hated being away from him. I will come soon. Shea took another deep breath and looked around, determined to find what was making her so uneasy. A man lounged lazily in the shade of a tree. He was tall, dark, and motionless, like a hunter. She felt the impact of his eyes as his gaze casually found her.