Best 3882 quotes in «fire quotes» category

Honestly, Im living my fantasy. Its being with my family, preferably on a snowy afternoon with a fire going, cuddled up in blankets, playing a game.

Hope not ever to see heaven. I come to lead you to the other shore; into the eternal darkness; into fire and ice.

Hope walks through the fire. Faith leaps over it.

Horror grows impatient, rhetorically, with the Stoic fatalism of Ecclesiastes. That we are all going to die, that death mocks and cancels every one of our acts and attainments and every moment of our life histories, this knowledge is to storytelling what rust is to oxidation; the writer of horror holds with those who favor fire. The horror writer is not content to report on death as the universal system of human weather; he or she chases tornadoes. Horror is Stoicism with a taste for spectacle.

How bittersweet it is, on winter's night, To listen, by the sputtering, smoking fire, As distant memories, through the fog-dimmed light, Rise, to the muffled chime of churchbell choir.

How can we extinguish a fire if we don't first cut off the fuel that ignites the inferno?

How could people, I wondered for the ten thousandth useless time, how could people who had loved so dearly come to such a wilderness; and yet the change in us was irreversible, and neither of us would even search for a way back. It was impossible. The fire was out. Only a few live coals lurked in the ashes, searing unexpectedly at the incautious touch.

How could you tell children they were playing with fire if they´d never had the experience of being burned?

How difficult the task to quench the fire and the pride of private ambition, and to sacrifice ourselves and all our hopes and expectations to the public weal! How few have souls capable of so noble an undertaking!

How is the anxious soul of man befool'd in his desire, That thinks an hectic fever may be cool'd in flames of fire?

How little we have, I thought, between us and the waiting cold, the mystery, death--a strip of beach, a hill, a few walls of wood or stone, a little fire--and tomorrow's sun, rising and warming us, tomorrow's hope of peace and better weather . . . What if tomorrow vanished in the storm? What if time stood still? And yesterday--if once we lost our way, blundered in the storm--would we find yesterday again ahead of us, where we had thought tomorrow's sun would rise?

How much evil throughout history could have been avoided had people exercised their moral acuity with convictional courage and said to the powers that be, 'No, I will not. This is wrong, and I don't care if you fire me, shoot me, pass me over for promotion, or call my mother, I will not participate in this unsavory activity.' Wouldn't world history be rewritten if just a few people had actually acted like individual free agents rather than mindless lemmings?

How often have I actually discovered in myself that enthusiasm raises the artist above himself, how in an ordinary mood one would not have been able to accomplish many of the things for which enthusiasm lends one everything, energy, fire.

How those fires burned that are no longer, how the weather worsened, how the shadow of the seagull vanished without a trace. Was it the end of a season, the end of a life? Was it so long ago it seems it might never have been? What is it in us that lives in the past and longs for the future, or lives in the future and longs for the past? (from "No Words Can Describe It")

How thin is the crust of order over the fires of human appetite and the lust for naked power.

How to re-light the fire the very ashes of which are scattered?

How would you possibly sell 700 companies in a fire sale and hope to get what they were worth?It's just an unrealistic sort of standard they're trying to hold [Donald Trump] to.

Huddled around the fire of the alphabet.

Human beings are often at their best when responding to immediate crises - car accidents, house fires, hurricanes. We are less effective in the face of enormous but slow-moving crises such as the loss of biodiversity or climate change.

Humanity is the start of the race; I say Humanity is the mould to break away from, the crust to break through, the coal to break into fire, The atom to be split.

Humans have always used our intelligence and creativity to improve our existence. After all, we invented the wheel, discovered how to make fire, invented the printing press and found a vaccine for polio.

Huts they made then, and fire, and skins for clothing, And a woman yielded to one man in wedlock... ... Common, to see the offspring they had made; The human race began to mellow then. Because of fire their shivering forms no longer Could bear the cold beneath the covering sky.

Husbands are like fires - they go out when they're left unattended.

I actually enjoy the pain. That's what gives me the fire inside to get up and keep going.

I always knew I had to be 100 percent in charge, even when I was a middle manager. I used to say to my boss, "Just give me enough rope and then fire me.

I am a fanatic! I feel a power within me...a fire that I may not quench, but must keep ablaze.

I always wanted to fire rays out of my fingertips.

I am a house gutted by fire where only the guilty sometimes sleep before the punishment that devours them hounds them out in the open.

I always wondered if those WWJD bracelets worked, so I bought one the other day. Well, a few minutes later, I was on a plane and this little kid was kicking my seat repeatedly, while his sister sang along with her walkman and their mother just sat there. I almost turned around and went off, and then I caught sight of my bracelet. What would Jesus do? So I lit them on fire and sent them all to Hell.

I am a hot-blooded fire and I am fearless.

I am fascinated by revolution. I am completely absorbed by it. I am crazed, am obsessed by the romanticism... . Revolution surges, flashes, thunders in almost every corner of the earth... . Brothers and sisters, keep fanning the flames of the leaping fire. ... Let us become logs to feed the flames of revolution.

I am Classic Rock Revisited. I revisit it every waking moment of my life because it has the spirit and the attitude and the fire and the middle finger. I am Rosa Parks with a Gibson guitar.

I am full of fire and passion. I am not ready yet for great concentration and passion.

I am the executioner. When the crime is committed and the Lord God does not take vengeance nor does the exalted State move to declare and then to punish, I say when these bitter events happen, then comes the time for the executioner to declare himself or herself as the case may be. I have waited long enough. So the time has come, and I declare myself the executioner. The three criminals are hereby sentenced to death. By fire. By earth. By water.

I am growing stronger. I am a stone being excavated by the slow passage of water; I am wood charred by a fire.

I am grown old, and have possibly lost a great deal of that fire, which formerly made me love fire in others at any rate, and however attended with smoke: but now I must have all sense, and cannot, for the sake of five righteous lines, forgive a thousand absurd ones.

I am not good. I am not virtuous. I am not sympathetic. I am not generous. I am merely and above all a creature of intense passionate feeling. I feel—everything. It is my genius. It burns me like fire.

I am only a spark: Make me a fire.

I am thy father's spirit; Doom'd for a certain term to walk the night And, for the day, confin'd to fast in fires, Till the foul crimes, done in my days of nature, Are burnt and purg'd away.

I am two different people. What you see on the court is just natural for me. I wear my heart on my sleeve. I have always said 'C'mon' purely to fire myself up. Off the court, I am a lot shyer. I stick to my team and my family and people I trust.

... I am with fire between my teeth and still nothing but my blank page.

I am happiest when I'm sitting on my parent's couch with the fire place on and talking to my family.

I am not feeling any better because I cannot stay in bed, having constant cause for walking. They say I leave at night by the window of my tower, hanging from a red umbrella with which I set fire to the forest!

I am on fire within. There comes no murmur of reply. What is it that will take away my sin, And save me lest I die?

I am the queen of spades, I am the wasp that stings, I am the dark serpent. I am the invulnerable animal who passes through fire and is not burned.

I am the Vampire Lestat. I'm immortal more or less. The light of the sun, the sustained heat of an intense fire-these things might destroy me. But then again, they might not.

I asked Sunny if she would ever consider dating you. She said she would rather give birth to a porcupine on fire.

I arise today Through the strength of heaven: Light of sun Brilliance of moon Splendor of fire Speed of lightning Swiftness of wind Depth of sea Stability of earth Firmness of rock.

I believe I saw a woodcock. He had a long bill like putting a fire hydrant into a pencil sharpener, then pasting it onto a bird and letting the bird fly away in front of me with this thing on its face for no other purpose than to amaze me.

I believe in hope, in what is something called ”radical hope.” I believe there is hope for all of us, even amid the suffering. And that’s why I write fiction, probaby. It’s my attempt to keep that fragile strand of radical hope, to buld a fire in the darkness.r