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“LONDON. Michaelmas Term lately over, and the Lord Chancellor sitting in Lincoln鈥檚 Inn Hall. Implacable November weather. As much mud in the streets as if the waters had but newly retired from the face of the earth, and it would not be wonderful to meet a Megalosaurus, forty feet long or so, waddling like an elephantine lizard up Holborn Hill. Smoke lowering down from chimney-pots, making a soft black drizzle, with flakes of soot in it as big as full-grown snow-flakes 鈥� gone into mourning, one might imagine, for the death of the sun. Dogs, undistinguishable in mire. Horses, scarcely better; splashed to their very blinkers. Foot passengers, jostling one another鈥檚 umbrellas in a general infection of ill-temper, and losing their foot-hold at street-corners, where tens of thousands of other foot passengers have been slipping and sliding since the day broke (if the day ever broke), adding new deposits to the crust upon crust of mud, sticking at those points tenaciously to the pavement, and accumulating at compound interest.

Fog everywhere. Fog up the river, where it flows among green aits and meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls defiled among the tiers of shipping and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city. Fog on the Essex marshes, fog on the Kentish heights. Fog creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs; fog lying out on the yards, and hovering in the rigging of great ships; fog drooping on the gunwales of barges and small boats. Fog in the eyes and throats of ancient Greenwich pensioners, wheezing by the firesides of their wards; fog in the stem and bowl of the afternoon pipe of the wrathful skipper, down in his close cabin; fog cruelly pinching the toes and fingers of his shivering little 鈥檖rentice boy on deck. Chance people on the bridges peeping over the parapets into a nether sky of fog, with fog all round them, as if they were up in a balloon, and hanging in the misty clouds.

Gas looming through the fog in divers places in the streets, much as the sun may, from the spongey fields, be seen to loom by husbandman and ploughboy. Most of the shops lighted two hours before their time 鈥� as the gas seems to know, for it has a haggard and unwilling look.

The raw afternoon is rawest, and the dense fog is densest, and the muddy streets are muddiest near that leaden-headed old obstruction, appropriate ornament for the threshold of a leaden-headed old corporation, Temple Bar. And hard by Temple Bar, in Lincoln鈥檚 Inn Hall, at the very heart of the fog, sits the Lord High Chancellor in his High Court of Chancery.”
― Charles Dickens, Bleak House

“One day many years ago a man walked along and stood in the sound of the ocean on a cold sunless shore and said, "We need a voice to call across the water, to warn ships; I'll make one. I'll make a voice like all of time and all of the fog that ever was; I'll make a voice that is like an empty bed beside you all night long, and like an empty house when you open the door, and like trees in autumn with no leaves. A sound like the birds flying south, crying, and a sound like November wind and the sea on the hard, cold shore. I'll make a sound that's so alone that no one can miss it, that whoever hears it will weep in their souls, and hearths will seem warmer, and being inside will seem better to all who hear it in the distant towns. I'll make me a sound and an apparatus and they'll call it a Fog Horn and whoever hears it will know the sadness of eternity and the briefness of life."

The Fog Horn blew.”
― Ray Bradbury, The Fog Horn

“Under the thinning fog the surf curled and creamed, almost without sound, like a thought trying to form inself on the edge of consciousness.”
― Raymond Chandler, The Big Sleep

“moonlight disappears down the hills
mountains vanish into fog
and i vanish into poetry.”
― Sanober Khan, A Thousand Flamingos

“Children of her type contrive the purest philosophies. Ada had worked out her own little system. Hardly a week had elapsed since Van鈥檚 arrival when he was found worthy of being initiated in her web of wisdom. An individual鈥檚 life consisted of certain classified things: "real things" which were unfrequent and priceless, simply "things" which formed the routine stuff of life; and "ghost things," also called "fogs," such as fever, toothache, dreadful disappointments, and death. Three or more things occurring at the same time formed a "tower," or, if they came in immediate succession, they made a "bridge." "Real towers" and "real bridges" were the joys of life, and when the towers came in a series, one experienced supreme rapture; it almost never happened, though. In some circumstances, in a certain light, a neutral "thing" might look or even actually become "real" or else, conversely, it might coagulate into a fetid "fog." When the joy and the joyless happened to be intermixed, simultaneously or along the ramp of duration, one was confronted with "ruined towers" and "broken bridges.”
― Vladimir Nabokov, Ada, or Ardor: A Family Chronicle

“A thin grey fog hung over the city, and the streets were very cold; for summer was in England.”
― Rudyard Kipling, The Light That Failed [Illustrated]

“At night the fog was thick and full of light, and sometimes voices.”
― Erin Bow, Plain Kate

“Desire is like fog on a bathroom mirror -- its presence incites you to wipe the mirror, and see yourself clearly again.”
― Vera Nazarian, The Perpetual Calendar of Inspiration

“Caught in the doldrums of August we may have regretted the departing summer, having sighed over the vanished strawberries and all that they signified. Now, however, we look forward almost eagerly to winter's approach. We forget the fogs, the slush, the sore throats an the price of coal, we think only of long evenings by lamplight, of the books which we are really going to read this time, of the bright shop windows and the keen edge of the early frosts.”
― Denis Mackail, Greenery Street

“I returned to the courtyard and saw that the sun had grown weaker. Beautiful and clear as it had been, the morning (as the day approached the completion of its first half) was becoming damp and misty. Heavy clouds moved from the north and were invading the top of the mountain, covering it with a light brume. It seemed to be fog, and perhaps fog was also rising from the ground, but at that altitude it was difficult to distinguish the mists that rose from below and those that come down from above. It was becoming hard to discern the bulk of the more distant buildings.”
― Umberto Eco, The Name of the Rose

“In the morning I woke like a sloth in the fog.”
― Leslie Connor, Waiting for Normal

“The night was white-blind with fog, and Kate staggered over every stone and stumbled in every puddle, but she pushed on as fast as she could.”
― Erin Bow, Plain Kate

“Lampposts look, in the glow of their defeated light, robbed by the fog, but cannot tell if the streets, lying by stretching limbs in courtyards, are sleeping face downwards or supine.”
― Suman Pokhrel

“There was fog, but behind the fog there was morning.”
― Naomi Alderman, The Future

“Some people get lost in completely sunny weather and some people don't get lost in the thickest fog!”
― Mehmet Murat ildan

“Pilgrim鈥檚 Progress by Stewart Stafford

Solitary steps in silence grim,
As waters lapped the lakeside鈥檚 rim,
In our time, before and aft,
Magpies cackled, crows laughed.

I drew level with a miasmic curtain,
In vapour folds, to views uncertain,
Sound grew thick in compensation,
I took each step with trepidation.

Sweet breath wind, fog dispersed,
Marvelling at the ground traversed,
The garden path to a shelter trite,
As hailstones on my windows bite.

漏 Stewart Stafford, 2024. All rights reserved.”
― Stewart Stafford

“Sometimes you need thick fog, yes fog is definitely a need; it wraps you up and isolate you from this world! You and the universe are left alone, there is a silence, you think about things you couldn't think of before, and you see things you couldn't see before! The fog is a journey both to oneself and to the universe. Fog is very strange because it stimulates both thoughts and non-thinking; like the pendulum of a clock, you oscillate between thinking and not thinking!”
― Mehmet Murat ildan

“If we cannot clear away the fog, it might be better to rise to a higher level and get above it.”
― Charles Haddon Spurgeon

“If you can see clearly in the fog, then there is no such thing as fog for you!”
― Mehmet Murat ildan

“Of course, one is familiar with the experience of seeing something ambiguous. 鈥淣ow it is the Taj Mahal鈥攏ow it is fog.鈥� And one can imagine having a procedural rule that anything ambiguous should be treated as the Taj Mahal unless we see that it is labelled 鈥渇og.”
― Michael Frayn

“Grief transforms you into someone you can't even recognize. For some it becomes a hard swim to the shores, becoming a fight for the light...and for the rest, they remain baffled forever in the thick fog of grief...”
― Jayita Bhattacharjee

“Sometimes a thick fog suddenly comes and covers your life! First, you are surprised, then you are scared, then in all that uncertainty and helplessness you start to learn something and finally as the fog clears you turn back and look at the fog and wave goodbye, thanking it for teaching you something important about life - despite all the hardships you have endured!”
― Mehmet Murat ildan

“Fear is a fog that burns away with the first footsteps of love....”
― Jayita Bhattacharjee

“Fear is a fog that burns with the first footsteps of love..”
― Jayita Bhattacharjee

“Fear is a fog that burns with the first footsteps of love”
― Jayita Bhattacharjee

“Either you will blow like the wind and disperse the fog, or you will live with the fog until it passes!”
― Mehmet Murat ildan

“Lost in torment, you find the quivering ache that makes your lips tremble and a song flies. That is how a new world opens, a world of ecstasy. At the edge of life, you find the light. Pushing through the fog, the sun appears.”
― Jayita Bhattacharjee

“Nothing we encounter is by chance, for each is a Godsend in this life. It may not seem clear at the time, but as you walk through the fog, you get to see the light, faintly spreading. There, we understand what seemed so baffling all this time. Could that be the sun coming through the fog?
We may not understand the path laid by God, but with time, we enter the incomprehensible. Each encounter is a gift from God, to help us unfold and find our sacred deep. Each loss can open a doorway if only we let it and the crushed heart grows to be a flower. Through loss and love, through all that is spoken and unspoken, we are going back home, to make sense of everything, to be aware of that which we were unaware of, --the purpose of life.”
― Jayita Bhattacharjee

“Now, Shadow has never been fond of clothing, but he seemed to sense the importance of this particular imposition on his dignity, and held still while Wendell measured and draped him in iterations of what became a fine coat. It was a soft, velvety black, embroidered with a kingly amount of silver, which Wendell somehow made from a handful of the silver buttons I had found. He had decided to make Shadow intimidating--- to which I did not object, knowing this would lessen the dog's embarrassment--- and so he had taken tendrils of fog and attached them to the cloak like billowing ribbons, so that Shadow seemed to carry a mist with him everywhere like the spectral beast that he is. Together with the glitter of the silver, the effect was--- well, mythic.”
― Heather Fawcett, Emily Wilde's Compendium of Lost Tales

“A society that doesn鈥檛 understand the meaning of words will not recognize the theft of meaning.”
― Adeel Ahmed Khan