Descriptive Writing Quotes

“Silence cut him to the quick as it breathed a tale he didn’t want to hear.”
― Kimber Silver, Broken Rhodes

“I feel her wave of worry like a patio heater - faint and ineffective, but constant.”
― Neal Shusterman, Challenger Deep

“The walls on either side were lined with curtains. Folds of damson velvet spilled onto the white marble floor. Gold fringes looped along the curtain rods above them. High overhead, rich reddish-brown slats formed the ceiling. Elaborate carvings in the wood depicted strange scenes of badgers and borlan and men.”
― S.C. Monson, Badgerblood: Awakening

“Our lives are spent plopped on the gluteal upholstery for eight hours a day with only imaginary friends for company, spinning lies, marinating in envy, and wondering when the Pulitzer committee is going to twig to our brilliance.”
― Sarah Bird, Recent Studies Indicate: The Best of Sarah Bird

“... tears, like drops of wax, flowed from his eyes.”
― Elie Wiesel, Night

“El tiempo había cambiado, desaparecían las nubes y ante él se extendía una llanura cubierta de un tapiz blanco y ondulante.”
― Pushkin Alexander

“The Christmas tree was a dark pyramid in the living room corner. Presents hid beneath it, wrapping paper quicksilver in the moonlight. He absorbed the stillness. An electric hiss seemed to saturate the air.”
― Meg Gardiner, The Dark Corners of the Night

“Coming, baby,' Shana murmured.
She tossed back the covers, brushed her sleep-tangled hair from her face, and slogged out of the bedroom. The hardwood floor creaked beneath her bare feet. Jaydee's cries grew clearer.”
― Meg Gardiner, Into the Black Nowhere

“She felt a pang, a deep wish for the bay, the soaring towers of the bridge, the sunlight skipping across ten thousand whitecaps between the Golden Gate and Alcatraz. She wanted the scent of the Pacific and the beauty of the cities and the mountains, and her man. She closed her eyes.
She opened them and felt small, surrounded by the sweep of the continent. The sky was vast. It was glorious and terrifying.”
― Meg Gardiner, Into the Black Nowhere

“—Es la collera de los cascabeles de correo —dijo el cochero—. No hay más que uno así en cada estación.

El son de la collera de la primera troika, que se oía claramente gracias al viento, era espléndido: puro, sonoro, grave y ligeramente trémolo. Según supe después, era un invento de cazadores: tres cascabeles, uno grande en el medio, con sonido frutal, así se llamaba, y dos pequeños, afinados en acorde de tercera. El sonido de esa tercera y la tintinante quinta, repercutido en el aire, era asombroso y extraño por su belleza en aquella estepa desierta y perdida.”
― Tolstoi Lev Nikolaevich

“Me da vergüenza recordar cómo grité, con qué voz tan estridente, hasta desesperada, «¡Cochero!», cuando lo tenía a dos pasos de mí.”
― Tolstoi Lev Nikolaevich

“Un gran caballo bayo alargó el pescuezo, arqueó la espalda, avanzó tranquilamente por el camino todo cubierto de nieve, moviendo su greñuda cabeza, e irguió una oreja repleta de nieve cuando se cruzó con nosotros.”
― Tolstoi Lev Nikolaevich

“Descriptive is the simplest and somewhat the most accessible type of academic writing. The purpose is to provide facts or information. Descriptive academic writing is usually a summary of an article or a report of the results of an experiment.”
― QuickEssayRelief

“Its voice was as clear as water, as pure as the light from the sun that was rising over the buildings around her.”
― Odo Hirsch, Hazel Green

“She jumped a little—Nettie Cobb had the face and almost painfully shy manner of a woman made to jump at voices, no matter how soft and friendly, when they spoke from the general area of her elbow—and smiled at him nervously”
― Stephen King, Needful Things

“He truly was the most infuriating man. At least anger felt hot and powerful. Riley clung to it, wrapped it around her shoulders like a blanket.”
― Rosie Danan, Do Your Worst

“Harrogate wore its quirks like a badge of honour. Genteel parks. Overpriced tearooms. Pensioners in tartan, and the faint pong of Victorian delusion still wafting from the Royal Pump Room like a sickly memory.”
― Tom Cartledge, SaddleSore: From England to India

“Maybe we're not the most faithful heroes, but maybe at least we can describe them.”
― HAZEM ABDELMOWLA

“I started to say, So then, what about the bracelet? but I could see he'd already given his answer, and it caused a kind of sorrow to rise in me that felt fresh and tender and had nothing, really, to do with the bracelet. I think now it was sorrow for the sound of his fork scraping the plate, the way it swelled in the distance between us, how I was not even in the room.”
― Sue Monk Kidd, The Secret Life of Bees

“I didn't know what to think, but what I felt was magnetic and so big it ached like the moon had entered my entire chest and filled it up.”
― Sue Monk Kidd, The Secret Life of Bees

“Silence had hovered over my head; beauty multiplying in the air, the trees so transparent I felt I could see through to something pure inside them. My chest ached then, too, this very same way”
― Sue Monk Kidd, The Secret Life of Bees

“She was almond-buttery with sweat and sun, her face corrugated with a thousand caramel wrinkles and her hair looking flour dusted, but the rest of her seemed decades younger.”
― Sue Monk Kidd, The Secret Life of Bees

“watched the clouds bruise dark purple over the treetops”
― Sue Monk Kidd, The Secret Life of Bees

“I saw a shiny film, across her eyes - the beginning of tears. Looking into her eyes, I could see a fire inside them. It was a hearth fire you could depend on, you could draw up to and get warm by if you were cold, or cook something on that would feed the emptiness in you. I felt like we were all adrift in the world, and all we had was the wet fire in August's eyes. But it was enough.”
― Sue Monk Kidd, The Secret Life of Bees

“There was a place inside him now that hadn't been there before. Heated, charged, angry. Coming into his presence was like stepping up to a gas heater, to a row of blue fire burning in the dark, wet curve of his eyes.”
― Sue Monk Kidd, The Secret Life of Bees

“....looking toward the window, at the birds flying home to their nests and moonlight just starting to pour down on the midlands of South Carolina, this place where I was tucked away with three women whose faces shone with candle glow.”
― Sue Monk Kidd, The Secret Life of Bees

“When we finished, the redness had seeped from the day and night was arranging herself around us. Cooling things down, staining and dyeing the evening purple and blue-black.”
― Sue Monk Kidd, The Secret Life of Bees

“I wish you'd told me what you knew about my mother,' I said. 'How come you didn't?' 'Oh Lily,' she said, and there was a gentleness in her words, like they'd been rocked in a little hammock of tenderness down her throat. 'Why would I go and hurt you with something like that?”
― Sue Monk Kidd, The Secret Life of Bees

“The month of August had turned into a griddle where the days just lay there and sizzled. I plucked leaves off the elephant ear plants and fanned my face, sat with my bare feet submerged in the trickling water, felt breezes lift off the river and sweep over me, and still everything about me was stunned and stupefied by the heat, everything except my heart. It sat like an ice sculpture in the center of my chest. Nothing could touch it.”
― Sue Monk Kidd, The Secret Life of Bees

“In autumn South Carolina changed her color to ruby red and wild shades of orange.”
― Sue Monk Kidd, The Secret Life of Bees