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Quotes tagged every bit "trains" Showing 1-thirty of 109

"It'southward not that we accept to quit
this life one twenty-four hour period, simply it's how
many things we have to quit
all at once: music, laughter,
the physics of falling leaves,
automobiles, holding hands,
the odour of rain, the concept
of subway trains... if only one
could go out this life slowly!"
― Roman Payne, Rooftop Soliloquy

"Time goes faster the more hollow it is. Lives with no significant become straight past you, like trains that don't stop at your station."
― Carlos Ruiz Zafón, The Shadow of the Wind

"I like trains. I like their rhythm, and I like the freedom of beingness suspended between two places, all anxieties of purpose taken care of: for this moment I know where I am going."
― Anna Funder, Stasiland: Stories from Behind the Berlin Wall

"The restlessness and the longing, similar the longing that is in the whistle of a faraway train. Except that the longing isn't really in the whistle—it is in you."
― Meindert DeJong, The Footling Cow and the Turtle

"You can kickoff by wiping that fucking impaired-ass grinning off your rosey, fucking, cheeks! And then y'all tin can requite me a fucking automobile... a fucking Datsun, a fucking Toyota, a fucking Mustang, a fucking Buick! Four fucking wheels and a seat! And I actually don't care for the way your company left me in the middle of fucking nowhere with fucking keys to a fucking motorcar that isn't fucking there. And I really didn't intendance to fucking walk down a fucking highway and beyond a fucking runway to get back here to accept y'all smile at my fucking face up. I want a fucking car RIGHT FUCKING NOW!"
― Steve Martin

"The only manner of communicable a train I have always discovered is to miss the railroad train before."
― M.K. Chesterton

"The train diameter me abroad, through the monstrous scenery of slag-heaps, chimneys, piled bit-atomic number 26, foul canals, paths of cindery mud criss-crossed by the prints of clogs. This was March, but the weather had been horribly cold and everywhere in that location were mounds of blackened snow. Equally we moved slowly through the outskirts of the town we passed row after row of niggling grey slum houses running at right angles to the embankment. At the back of one of the houses a young woman was kneeling on the stones, poking a stick upward the leaden waste matter-piping which ran from the sink within and which I suppose was blocked. I had time to see everything about her—her sacking apron, her clumsy clogs, her arms reddened by the cold. She looked upwardly as the train passed, and I was near well-nigh enough to grab her eye. She had a round stake face, the usual exhausted face of the slum daughter who is twenty-5 and looks forty, thanks to miscarriages and drudgery; and it wore, for the second in which I saw information technology, the most desolate, hopeless expression I have ever-seen. It struck me then that we are mistaken when we say that 'It isn't the aforementioned for them as it would be for us,' and that people bred in the slums can imagine nothing but the slums. For what I saw in her face was not the ignorant suffering of an fauna. She knew well enough what was happening to her—understood also as I did how dreadful a destiny it was to be kneeling there in the bitter cold, on the slimy stones of a slum lawn, poking a stick up a foul drain-pipage."
― George Orwell, The Road to Wigan Pier

"He offered her power, money, status...
a giant prison, all in exchange
for merely...her soul."
― Jamie Weise

"It ought to be apparently how little you gain
by getting excited and vexed.
You'll e'er be tardily for the previous train,
and always on time for the side by side."
― Piet Hein

"...what thrills me nigh trains is not their size or their equipment but the fact that they are moving, that they embody a connectedness between unseen places."
― Marianne Wiggins

"The aristocrats, if such they could exist called, mostly hated the whole concept of the train on the basis that it would encourage the lower classes to move virtually and not e'er exist available."
― Terry Pratchett, Raising Steam

"He had let me know time after time that he was a thinking man, a man of intellect and wit. Yet one unintended hungry expect into my eyes and he betrayed each of his words he had carefully spoken to me. I knew it in that instant. He was a viscerally driven human being. And one day, he would possess me."
― Jamie Weise

"I prevarication down on many a station platform; I stand earlier many a soup kitchen; I squat on many a demote;--and then at last the mural becomes disturbing, mysterious, and familiar. It glides by the western windows with its villages, their thatched roofs like caps, pulled over the white-done, half-timbered houses, its corn-fields, gleaming like mother-of-pearl in the slanting low-cal, its orchards, its barns and old lime trees.

The names of the stations begin to accept on pregnant and my heart trembles. The railroad train stamps and stamps onward. I stand up at the window and hold on to the frame. These names mark the boundaries of my youth."
― Erich Maria Remarque, All Quiet on the Western Front

"Vi express tracks and twelve locals pass through Palimpsest. The six Greater Lines are: Stylus, Sgraffito, Decretal, Foolscap, Bookhand, and Missal. Collectively, in the prayers of those gathered prostrate in the brass turnstiles of its subconscious, voluptuous shrines, these are referred to every bit the Marginalia Line. They do non run on fourth dimension: rather, the commuters of Palimpsest have learned their habits, the times of day and night when they prefer to eat and drink, their mating seasons, their gathering places. In days of old, great safaris were held to take hold of the great trains in their inexorable passage from place to identify, and women grappled with them with hooks and tridents in order to go far punctually at a desk in the depth, of the city.

Equally if to impress a distracted parent on their birthday, the folk of Palimpsest congenital groovy edifices where the trains liked to congregate to drink oil from the globe and exchange gossip. They laid black track along the carriages' migratory patterns. Trains are creatures of routine, though they are also peevish and curmudgeonly. Thus the transit system of Palimpsest was raised up around the huffing behemoths that traversed its middle, and the trains have not nevertheless expressed displeasure.

To ride them is still an practise in hunterly passion and exactitude, for they are unpredictable, and must be observed for many weeks before patterns can be discerned. The sport of commuting is attempted by only the bravest and the wildest of Palimpsest. Many have achieved such a level of bent that they are able to catch a train more mornings than they do not.

The wise arrive early on with a smashing curl of hooked rope at their waist, so that if a railroad train is in a very great hurry, they may catch it still, and ride behind on the pauper's terrace with the rest of those who were non favored, or fast enough, or precise in their calculations. Woe betide them in the exceptional mating seasons! No railroad train may be asked to brand its regular stops when she is in heat! A human being was once caught on board when an express caught the odour of a local. The poor banker was released to a platform only 8 months after, when the two white leviathans had relinquished each other with regret and tears."
― Catherynne Grand. Valente, Palimpsest

"Suicide by train is also pop in many developed countries. Without ready access to firearms, suicidal people frequently plough to trains. —Der Spiegel, July 27, 2011

One time it happens you can't recall
how you started out: innocent,
barreling into the tunnel,
shooting out at each station
like a dolphin out of a dim green pool.
Pneumatic doors inhale open, puff close,
lock with a solid thump.

Upwards and downwardly the line, fifty times a day,
it's a long tiresome song. You lot
feel the rumble equally much as hear it.
In your dim green trance
the words retain wonder:
Vorsicht, Türe werden geschloßen.
Caution, the doors are closing.

And then the kickoff time:
someone decides darkness will respond,
hides out in the tunnel,
steps out in front of the train
like he knows where he's going,
steps out at you, dying at you,
knowing you tin't finish in time.

Now each time the doors close,
they seal yous in. You are a human bullet
shot into the tunnels, hoping no one
will block the light far ahead,
each station 1 minute's reprieve."
― Karen Greenbaum-Maya

"At least when I become on the Boston railroad train I accept a skilful chance of landing in the Due south Station
And not in that part of the daily printing which is reserved for victims of aviation."
― Ogden Nash, Difficult Lines

"A railroad station? That was sort of a archaic airport, only y'all didn't accept to have a cab 20 miles out of boondocks to reach it."
― Russell Baker

"Temple of the Rat King. Ark of the Soot God. Sphincter of Hades. Yes, King'due south Cantankerous Station, where, according to Knuckle Sandwich, a accident job costs only 5 quid - any of the furthest-left three cubicles in the men's lavvy downstairs, twenty-four hour period a twenty-four hour period."
― David Mitchell, Cloud Atlas

"On the train I had a lot of fourth dimension to think. I idea how in the thirty years of my life I had seldom gotten on a train in America without being witting of my color. In the South, at that place are Jim Crow cars and Negroes must ride split up from the whites, normally in a filthy antiquated omnibus next to the engine, getting all the smoke and bumps and clay. In the Due south, nosotros cannot purchase sleeping motorcar tickets. Such comforts are only for white folks. And in the Northward where segregated travel is not the police, colored people accept, still, many difficulties. In automobile buses they must take the seats in the rear, over the wheels. On the boats they must occupy the worst cabins. The ticket agents always say that all other accommodations are sold. On trains, if one sits down by a white person, the white person will sometimes become up, flinging back an insult at the Negro who has dared to take a seat beside him. Thus it is that in America, if you are xanthous, dark-brown, or blackness, you tin never travel anywhere without beingness reminded of your color, and oft-times suffering bully inconveniences.

I sabbatum in the comfy sleeping motorcar on my first day out of Moscow and remembered many things virtually trips I had taken in America. I remembered how, in one case as a youngster going alone to see my father who was working in Mexico, I went into the dining machine of the train to eat. I sat down at a table with a white man. The human looked at me and said, "Yous're a nigger, ain't you lot?" and left the tabular array. It was below his dignity to eat with a Negro child. At St. Louis I went onto the station platform to purchase a glass of milk. The clerk behind the counter said, "We don't serve niggers," and refused to sell me annihilation. As I grew older I learned to expect this often when traveling. And so when I went South to lecture on my verse at Negro universities, I carried my ain nutrient because I knew I could not become into the dining cars. In one case from Washington to New Orleans, I lived all the mode on the railroad train on common cold food. I remembered this miserable trip equally I sat eating a hot dinner on the diner of the Moscow-Tashkent express.

Traveling South from New York, at Washington, the capital letter of our country, the official Jim Crow begins. There the conductor comes through the railroad train and, if you are a Negro, touches yous on the shoulder and says, "The last coach forward is the automobile for colored people." Then you must movement your baggage and yourself upwardly most the engine, because when the railroad train crosses the Potomac River into Virginia, and the dome of the Capitol disappears, it is illegal any longer for white people and colored people to ride together. (Or to eat together, or sleep together, or in some places even to piece of work together.) Now I am riding South from Moscow and am not Jim-Crowed, and none of the darker people on the railroad train with me are Jim-Crowed, so I brand a happy mental note in the back of my mind to write dwelling house to the Negro papers: "There is no Jim Crow on the trains of the Soviet Union."
― Langston Hughes, Skilful Morning, Revolution: Uncollected Social Protestation Writings

"The new transportation organisation is multi-modal, autonomous and electrical. People employ a variety of vehicles including cars, bicycles, rider drones, hoverboards, airplanes, boats, rockets and more than. And with ease, efficiency and comfort. At Mayflower-Plymouth, nosotros're making that real."
― Hendrith Vanlon Smith Jr

"Yep, the train wants to get out the path fatigued for information technology, because he wants to exist free, but that would be the end of his life! The poor train lives with this dilemma all his life!"
― Mehmet Murat ildan

"The stop yous get off is more important than the train you take because no one stays on the railroad train!"
― Mehmet Murat ildan

"The simplicity of a train'due south success strategy is admirable: Move forward and reach your destination!"
― Mehmet Murat ildan

"I like trains and the romance of traveling by train. When you travel by railroad train, y'all tin't get wherever you lot want to become; you have to stay on the train tracks (aka rails) and follow where they run.

When yous don't have a choice of things to exercise or places to get, the decision to monotask is much easier. Therefore, I like to remind myself to Sleep on rails. Riding the rails (in the comfort of my own bed of course) from i point to some other keeps me focused on sleep and prevents me from taking any side trips during the night."
― Thatcher Wine, The Twelve Monotasks: Do One Thing at a Time to Do Everything Better

"Retrieve near the trains yous will have, not the trains you missed!"
― Mehmet Murat ildan

"There is enough steam still in the pipes to feed its piston, simply information technology has no real ability. The wheel is nothing more than than a spinning bloom decorating a grave."
― Shawn P. McCarthy

"Current of air against the goggles. Cool night air against her cheeks. She roars on into the nighttime, hissing and clanking and smoking. She heads toward the glow of the big metropolis, with sparks trailing backside her like dying moths."
― Shawn P. McCarthy

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