Best 3882 quotes in «fire quotes» category

Writing a first-draft battle scene is akin to real combat—chaos, confusion, and you must keep your cool as you fire word bullets downrange.

Writing is dreaming with your eyes open — and your heart on fire.

Writing is my passion and burns in me like a fire. I'm always writing and honing my skills to feed the flames.

Xerxes, I read, ‘halted his unwieldy army for days that he might contemplate to his satisfaction’ the beauty of a single sycamore. You are Xerxes in Persia. Your army spreads on a vast and arid peneplain…you call to you all your sad captains, and give the order to halt. You have seen the tree with the lights in it, haven’t you? You must have. Xerxes buffeted on a plain, ambition drained in a puff. Your men are bewildered…there is nothing to catch the eye in this flatness, nothing but a hollow, hammering sky, a waste of sedge in the lee of windblown rocks, a meager ribbon of scrub willow tracing a slumbering watercourse…and that sycamore. You saw it; you will stand rapt and mute, exalted, remembering or not remembering over a period of days to shade your head with your robe. “He had its form wrought upon a medal of gold to help him remember it the rest of his life.” We all ought to have a goldsmith following us around. But it goes without saying, doesn’t it, Xerxes, that no gold medal worn around your neck will bring back the glad hour, keep those lights kindled so long as you live, forever present? Pascal saw it; he grabbed pen and paper and scrawled the one word, and wore it sewn in his shirt the rest of his life. I don’t know what Pascal saw. I saw a cedar. Xerxes saw a sycamore.

You are a woman. You are the fire! You are all conquering. You are all powerful! You are Supreme! You were not born to be a mere beauty queen!!

You are Fire! Don’t believe these mere mortals. They want to put you on a pedestal and sing paeans to you; later they would burn you in the altar of that same fire! Stand away and stand alone! You are limitless! But these mortals can only limit your sky! You are the Universe! But they will only give you a little space! Break free! It’s a trap! They want to cage you! Because, they are afraid of your real power! You are a woman. You are the fire! You are all conquering. You are all powerful! You are Supreme! You were not born to be a mere beauty queen!!

You are God. You want to make a forest, something to hold the soil, lock up energy, and give off oxygen. Wouldn’t it be simpler just to rough in a slab of chemicals, a green acre of goo? You are a man, a retired railroad worker who makes replicas as a hobby. You decide to make a replica of one tree, the longleaf pine your great-grandfather planted- just a replica- it doesn’t have to work. How are you going to do it? How long do you think you might live, how good is your glue? For one thing, you are going to have to dig a hole and stick your replica trunk halfway to China if you want the thing to stand up. Because you will have to work fairly big; if your replica is too small, you’ll be unable to handle the slender, three-sided needles, affix them in clusters of three in fascicles, and attach those laden fascicles to flexible twigs. The twigs themselves must be covered by “many silvery-white, fringed, long-spreading scales.” Are your pine cones’ scales “thin, flat, rounded at the apex?” When you loose the lashed copper wire trussing the limbs to the trunk, the whole tree collapses like an umbrella. You are a sculptor. You climb a great ladder; you pour grease all over a growing longleaf pine. Next, you build a hollow cylinder around the entire pine…and pour wet plaster over and inside the pine. Now open the walls, split the plaster, saw down the tree, remove it, discard, and your intricate sculpture is ready: this is the shape of part of the air. You are a chloroplast moving in water heaved one hundred feet above ground. Hydrogen, carbon, oxygen, nitrogen in a ring around magnesium…you are evolution; you have only begun to make trees. You are god- are you tired? Finished?

You are playing with fire, ma petite.” The words were nearly unable to escape his strangled throat. She glanced up at him, just once. A quick look from under the crescent of her long lashes. Teasing. Sexy. His innocent erotic. “I thought I was playing with you,” she denied, her attention back on his fierce arousal. Her warm breath bathed him in heat, in temptation. He threw back his head, his hands tightening in her thick mane of hair. His neck was arched, his eyes closed. “I think it is fair to say it is the same thing,” he bit out between clenched teeth.

You are strong, tempered like steel in the fire and by the blows of the hammer of life. Nothing will break you again, only make you stronger and more whole. Perfection is the pride of those who have not lived, who know not these things in their arrogance. They remain the same - raw and without form. The hammer never touches them, and they lie on the shelf, gathering dust, slowly tarnishing and fading and crumbling. the blows of the hammer in the fire refine us into bright shining glory for the roles we play in life - until we are one with the anvil, becoming immune to the hammer's little knocks, and smile at it.

You are the earth, my dear grandson, and just like it takes everything without complaining, so have you shown us today that you will take everything in kind, and there's no greater title than this.

you are the mysterious fire at my finger tips

You burn bright and you burn hard, like a fire in a dumpster, and nobody is so worried about you burning as they are worried about the fire spreading.

You hide it well, but I can see it, Lord Verniers. You hate us. We have beaten you to obedience but it's still there, like dry tinder waiting for a spark.

You have to go through the fires to be tested by faith.

You kissed me that morning as if you’d never done it before and never would again and now I write another letter that I will never dare to send, collecting memories of loss like chains tight around my chest, and if you see a fire from the shore tonight it’s my chains going up in flames.

You know, rust is just oxidation. The same chemical process as fire. Oxygen interacts with steel, electrons drift from one element to the other. So really, rust is a slow fire. Isn't that weird? Water causes something to burn.

You know, we can still put that suit to use, though.” I glanced toward the truck and Lock’s face lit up as I closed the distance between us. “What happened to needing a shower?” “Showers are overrated,” I whispered, holding his gaze through the visor. “Plus,” I turned my head to look down the hall, “Jay is down there now.” “That’d be right. Let me just hang up my hat.” He was pulling away when I caught his wrist. “Nuh-uh. Keep the helmet. I want to be with my firefighter.

You must live a very free life." "Me?" she laughed. "I am not who swoops out of the sky to rain fire on pirates!" "Yeah, but before this I never did much. I mean I did a lot, but...I lived in a room at a university, and my whole world was in that little room. There was this world inside my head." De la Fitte studied his head as if she could see through his skull to a little globe inside it somewhere.

You must burn. Burn higher. Burn for everything you have ever wanted. For everything you have ever lost, for every crack in your heart and every fraction of every irreplaceable moment. Burn high for love. For fear. For life. Burn as fast and as long as you can. You must burn, burn higher. Because nothing in this world will kill you faster than a dying fire.

you, my friend, could be the smoke’s daughter, you who may not have known you were born of fire and rage, lightning over flaming lava etched your violet mouth, your sex in the scorched oak’s moss like a ring in a nest, your fingers there in the flames, your compact body rose from leaves of fire that make me recall there were bakers in your family tree, you’re still the rainforest’s bread, ash from violent wheat,

You must remember, burn them or they'll burn you...

You never know what the vodka will bring,” I laughed. “Oh, like the time you caught my hair on fire at the candlelight party in Mel’s basement! That was the craziest thing that I ever had happen to me. If you hadn’t switched to water, I would have been bald!” -Cora, Nessa

You're playing with fire," she warned him. "That's how I know I'm alive.

Your blindness to my downfall, Has gone too far to be a joke, As I stand ablaze before you, And you tell me you smell smoke.

Your hair is winter fire, January embers. My heart burns there, too. -Stephen King, IT

You’re sure this is what you want?” I search her eyes for doubt, fear, uncertainty, but all I see is that fire. Ten hells “I’m sure” “Then I’ll find a way

Your eyes were on fire You were scratching your head Pacing the room You were seeing red

Your kiss is honey and your touch scorches like fire, and I worship it.

Your little kettle will rattle in the battle; just put it on fire. Spark your ambitions with action and thing will change. Be like a warrior!

Your powers don't work in the rain do they? A little bit of water and your fire fizzles out? So Little Miss Perfect does have a weakness after all!

You should have started with the fire,” Masika said dryly. “I thought it might scare her.” Masika raised her eyebrows. “More than cutting yourself?

You see, I have been content with the darkness. But then you came, with your fire. And you reminded me about the stars, shining in the dark, never wavering.

Above all, in my anger, I was sad. Isn't that always the way, that at the heart of the fire is a frozen kernel of sorrow that the fire is trying -- valiantly, fruitlessly -- to eradicate.

You tasted like fire And I miss that. So, at times I drank a little. And at times, I drank too much. But I only drank Till it burned me enough.

3D is not a fire and forget tool. It takes a lot of very careful consideration and it will change your approach to where you put the camera so 3D isn't for everybody.

Absence in love is like water upon fire; a little quickens, but much extinguishes it.

A burnt child loves the fire.

A burnt dog dreads the fire.

A band that we supported called Blackfish in Manchester, played the most insane gig I've ever been to. Everything was set on fire, and then they came on and played one of the coolest gigs I've ever seen.

A bizarrerie of fires, cunabulum of light, it moved with a deft, almost dainty deliberation, phasing into and out of existence like a storm-shot piece of evening; or perhaps the darkness between the flares was more akin to its truest nature swirl of black ashes assembled in prancing cadence to the lowing note of desert wind down the arroyo behind buildings as empty yet filled as the pages of unread books or stillnesses between the notes of a song.

Absence Is To Love, What The Wind Is To Fire, When It's a Small Fire The Wind Kills It But When It's a Real Fire It Intensifies It

A burnt finger remember the fire.

Accidents happen, whether they're car accidents, friendly fire, drug overdoses. Accidents happen, and they're tragic. It's like a bomb that goes off and pieces of shrapnel rip into the flesh of the family. It's the families that need the compassion, because everywhere they walk, every day, someone reminds them of their loss.

A child may have to be snatched with roughness away from a fire so that he shall not be burnt.

A clear fire, a clean hearth, and the rigour of the game.

A Christian never falls asleep in the fire or in the water, but grows drowsy in the sunshine.

A cigarette is a roll of paper, tobacco, and drugs, with a small fire on one end and a large fool at the other. Some of its chief benefits are cancer of the lips and stomach, softening of the brain, funeral procesions, and families shrouded in gloom and grief. Although a great many people know this, they still smoke in order to appear sophisticated.

A conflagration always made such a nice backdrop to a battle. Fire made everything so much more joyously apocalyptic.

A certain fire pretends to be alive; it awakens. Working its way along the hand as a conductor, it reaches the support and engulfs it; then a leaping spark closes the circle it was to trace, coming back to the eye and beyond.

A cigarette is a pinch of tobacco rolled in paper with fire at one end and a fool at the other.