My skin is kind of sort of brownish Pinkish yellowish white. My eyes are greyish blueish green, But I'm told they look orange in the night. My hair is reddish blondish brown, But it's silver when it's wet. And all the colors I am inside Have not been invented yet.
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Out of the closets and into the museums, libraries, architectural monuments, concert halls, bookstores, recording studios and film studios of the world. Everything belongs to the inspired and dedicated thief... Words, colors, light, sounds, stone, wood, bronze belong to the living artist. They belong to anyone who can use them. Loot the Louver! A bas l Originality, the sterile and assertive ego that imprisons us as it creates. Vive le sol -- pure, shameless, total. We are not responsible. Steal anything in sight.
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While walking in a toy store The day before today, I overheard a Crayon Box With many things to say. I don't like red! said Yellow. And Green said, Nor do I! And no one here likes Orange, But no one knows quite why. We are a box of crayons that really doesn't get along, Said Blue to all the others. Something here is wrong! Well, i bought that box of crayons And took it home with me And laid out all the crayons So the crayons could all see They watched me as I colored With Red and Blue and Green And Black and White and Orange And every color in between They watched as Green became the grass And Blue became the sky. The Yellow sun was shining bright On White clouds drifting by. Colors changing as they touched, Becoming something new. They watched me as I colored. They watched till I was through. And when I'd finally finished, I began to walk away. And as I did the Crayon box Had something more to say... I do like Red! said the Yellow And Green said, So do I! And Blue you are terrific! So high up in the sky. We are a Box of Crayons Each of us unique, But when we get together The picture is complete.
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Man knows that there are in the soul tints more bewildering, more numberless, and more nameless that the colors of an autumn forest....Yet he seriously believes that these things can every one of them , in all their tones and semi-tones, in all their blends and unions, be accurately represented by an arbitrary system of grunts and squeals. He believes that an ordinary civilized stockbroker can really produce out of his own inside noises which denote all the mysteries of memory and all the agonies of desire.
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I don’t care if it rains or freezes long as got my plastic Jesus sitting, on the dashboard of my car. Comes in colors pink and pleasant; glows in the dark cause it’s iridescent; take it with you, when you travel far. Get yourself a pink Madonna dressed in rhinestones; sitting on a pedestal, of abalone shell. God almighty, I aint scary - cause I got the Virgin Mary... Assuring me, that I won’t go to hell.
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Breathe deep the gathering gloom Watchlights fade from every room Bedsitter people look back and lament Another days useless energies spent Empassioned lovers wrestle as one Lonely man cries for love and has none New mother picks up and settles her son Senior citizens wish they were young Cold hearted orb that rules the night Removes the colors from our sight Red is gray and yellow white But we decide which is right And which is an illusion
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All of our lives is a rebus Of little wooden animals painted shy, Terrific colors, magnificent and horrible, Close together.
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The butterfly's attractiveness derives not only from colors and symmetry: deeper motives contribute to it. We would not think them so beautiful if they did not fly, or if they flew straight and briskly like bees, or if they stung, or above all if they did not enact the perturbing mystery of metamorphosis: the latter assumes in our eyes the value of a badly decoded message, a symbol, a sign.
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Colors are the smiles of nature.
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America is not like a blanket -- one piece of unbroken cloth, the same color, the same texture, the same size. America is more like a quilt -- many patches, many pieces, many colors, many sizes, all woven and held together by a common thread.
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Romance and novel paint beauty in colors more charming than nature, and describe a happiness that humans never taste. How deceptive and destructive are those pictures of consummate bliss!
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Where does the violet tint end and the orange tint begins? Distinctly we see the difference of the colors, but where exactly does the one first blending enter into the other. So with sanity and insanity.
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From Mount Hollywood, Los Angeles looks rather nice, enveloped in a haze of changing colors. Actually, and in spite of all the healthful sunshine and ocean breezes, it is a bad place - full of old, dying people, who were born old of tired pioneer parents, victims of America - full of curious wild and poisonous growths, decadent religious cults and fake science, and wildcat enterprises, which, with their aim for quick profit, are doomed to collapse and drag down multitudes of people.
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Vocations which we wanted to pursue, but didn't, bleed, like colors, on the whole of our existence.
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Once the visitor was told rather repetitively that this city was the melting pot; never before in history had so many people of such varied languages, customs, colors and culinary habits lived so amicably together. Although New York remains peaceful by most standards, this self-congratulation is now less often heard, since it was discovered some years ago that racial harmony depended unduly on the willingness of the blacks (and latterly the Puerto Ricans) to do for the other races the meanest jobs at the lowest wages and then to return to live by themselves in the worst slums.
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Great artistic talent in any direction... is hardly inherent to the man. It comes and goes; it is often possessed only for a short phase in his life; it hardly ever colors his character as a whole and has nothing to do with the moral and intellectual stuff of the mind and soul. Many great artists, perhaps most great artists, have been poor fellows indeed, whom to know was to despise.
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Dateline Mesopotamia, 3500 B.C. That's when the multi-faceted sounds we call music got its humble beginnings. It seems clappers were sent out the the fields to scare evil spirits away. These clappers started getting into the beat of their duty and, bingo, you got drums. From there, horns, strings, reeds, the whole orchestral gestalt. So, born in staving off death, music continues to nourish us in a variety of forms as different as the colors of the spectrum.
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The bees of Death are big and black, they buzz low and sombre, they keep their honey in combs of wax as white as altar candles. The honey is black as night, thick as sin and sweet as treacle. It is well known that eight clours make up white. But there are also eight colors of blackness, for those that have the seeing of them, and the hives of Death are among the black grass in the black orchard under the black-blossomed, ancient boughs of trees that will, eventually, produce apples that ... put it like this ... probably won't be red.
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Every time I get a script it's a matter of trying to know what I could do with it. I see colors, imagery. It has to have a smell. It's like falling in love. You can't give a reason why.
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Before a diamond shows its brilliancy and prismatic colors it has to stand a good deal of cutting and smoothing.
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What economy of colors there, compared to a tropical fish or a sunrise or even a pigeon's neck -- dull red, indistinct gray buff, some splotches of green. But what opulence of forms -- serpents, goblets, tapestries, coils, pouches, conch shells, washboards, sheets, waves, curls, fountains of translucent tissue.
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You think a man is a man cause he wears team colors and guzzles beer in front of the tube Can't you see, boys, the sands of time are dribbling through the hourglass
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The beggar wears all colors fearing none.
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America is not like a blanket-one piece of unbroken cloth, the same color, the same texture, the same size. America is more like a quilt-many patches, many pieces, many colors, many sizes, all woven and held together by a common thread.
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America is not like a blanket: one piece of unbroken cloth, the same color, the same texture, the same size. America is more like a quilt: many patches, many pieces, many colors, many sizes, all woven and held together by a common thread.
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America is not like a blanket: one piece of unbroken cloth, the same color, the same texture, the same size. America is more like a quilt: many patches, many pieces, many colors, many sizes, all woven and held together by a common thread
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White is not a mere absence of color; it is a shining and affirmative thing, as fierce as red, as definite as black. God paints in many colors; but He never paints so gorgeously, I had almost said so gaudily, as when He paints in white.
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Marijuana enhances many things, colors, flavors, sensations, but you are certainly not f**king empowered. When you're stoned, you're lucky if you can find your own goddamn feet. The only way it's a performance-enhancing drug is if there's a big f**king Hershey bar at the end of the run. Then you'll be like a Swiss ski jumper going, I'm there!
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For memory has painted this perfect day With colors that never fade, And we find at the end of a perfect day The soul of a friend we've made.
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Let reverence for the laws, be breathed by every American mother, to the lisping babe, that prattles on her lap -- let it be taught in schools, in seminaries, and in colleges; let it be written in Primers, spelling books, and in Almanacs; -- let it be preached from the pulpit, proclaimed in legislative halls, and enforced in courts of justice. And, in short, let it become the political religion of the nation; and let the old and the young, the rich and the poor, the grave and the gay, of all sexes and tongues, and colors and conditions, sacrifice unceasingly upon its altars.
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