Best 3882 quotes in «fire quotes» category

in the afterglow of an evening rain i lay down in the grass and think of you my body aches like an after-kiss breaking in soft fires and wildflowers my dear, i will always be this tender for you.

In the forty minutes I watched the muskrat, he never saw me, smelled me, or heard me at all. When he was in full view of course I never moved except to breathe. My eyes would move, too, following his, but he never noticed. Only once, when he was feeding from the opposite bank about eight feet away did he suddenly rise upright, all alert- and then he immediately resumed foraging. But he never knew I was there. I never knew I was there, either. For that forty minutes last night I was as purely sensitive and mute as a photographic plate; I received impressions, but I did not print out captions. My own self-awareness had disappeared; it seems now almost as though, had I been wired to electrodes, my EEG would have been flat. I have done this sort of thing so often that I have lost self-consciousness about moving slowly and halting suddenly. And I have often noticed that even a few minutes of this self-forgetfulness is tremendously invigorating. I wonder if we do not waste most of our energy just by spending every waking minute saying hello to ourselves. Martin Buber quotes an old Hasid master who said, “When you walk across the field with your mind pure and holy, then from all the stones, and all growing things, and all animals, the sparks of their souls come out and cling to you, and then they are purified and become a holy fire in you.

In the Middle Ages, cathedrals and convents burned like tinder; imagining a medieval story without a fire is like imagining a World War II movie in the Pacific without a fighter plane shot down in flames.

I once took all my journals from 3 years and burned them in a fire. Alone, watching the past disintegrate reminded me of life and time. The present is all I had. Time slowly burning away each moment.

I realized, when I saw the forest burning, how fascinating the firelight is. It's beautiful, and people stare at it, don't they? It destroys things and kills people, but humans love it. Is it because they crave their own destruction, Sam? I want to understand your kind. I am going out into the wider world, and I must learn. But first things first. First, to escape this shell, this egg in which I have gestated, all eyes will be on the fire, all eyes blinded by the smoke, and when I walk out of here, out into your large world with its billions, no one will even see. It's the beauty of light, don't you see, Sam? It reveals, but it also distracts and blinds. It's even better than darkness.

I remember watching my grandmother build her fire, the honest kindling, the twisted newspaper, the tiny tower of good black coal. And how, once lit, she'd hold a sheet of newspaper across the fire and say, 'watch it suck, dear'. - An Old Woman's Fire

I run into fires, not from them.

Ry-Rylan?" Ivy's voice is faint. I crawl over to her side, my eyes never once straying from hers. "Rylan?" "I'm here," I whisper, stroking her forehead with tenderness. "I'm here, and I'm not leaving you." She grins weakly. The light in her eyes is starting to slowly fade. "Thank you. I wish I could say the same...for me." "Don't say that," I beg. "You're not going to die. I'll get some water, out the fire out, and everything will be fine—" Ivy places her hand on mine. "Water will not stop it. Once it starts, the fire will keep going. See how it spreads?" She's right. In these few moments the flames have spread up to her waist, licking her body with searing tongues. Something glows. Glancing down, I see Ivy healing my burned palms. Once she's done, she places her hand on my bloody shoulder and heals that too. "There," she murmurs, letting her hand drop. "You are all healed. My last gift to you." "You can't leave," I whisper, more to myself than anyone else. Tears prick my eyes. "You can't leave." "We all have to leave sometimes," Ivy muses, so calm in the face of death. "Even swamp angels.

It began as a flicker in her mind. Just a glint in a place still ruled by childish thoughts and fantasies. Yet that single spark ignited something, and the ensuing flame rushed forth with such speed and intensity that she was momentarily frightened it would swallow her whole. But there was no fighting it. It indeed devoured her, as well as everything else in its path. In the brief passage of an instant, the young girl’s tiny form was filled to the brim with brilliant, searing, blinding rage.

I think one can tell a lot about a person from the way he chooses to let the stub of his cigarette burn out...

It is in the nature of things that something when started cannot be reversed. Like getting attracted to someone. When the feelings are strong and the fire is lit then nothing can be ever reversed. So don't start the fire if you are not ready!

I saw it in his eyes, first. That hunger, that fire. And then I found it in myself. He's a flame, Waxillium is, and fire can be shared. When I'm out here, when I'm with him, I burn, Marasi. It's wonderful.

I sat down on the grass and looked up at Brae. He was still shirtless and - although it pained me a little to even think it - it suited him. He was in really good shape and he looked less uptight without it, more relaxed. If it wasn't for his weird silver hair he could have looked perfectly ordinary. Better than ordinary in fact.

I saw a kittypet today," she began. "On our territory?" Spottedleaf asked absently. "On a fence." Would the medicine cat think she'd gone mad? "There was something about him that made me wonder if he would make a good warrior." Spottedleaf looked up, her eyes shining with surprise. "A kittypet?" "His pelt was the color of flame." Spottedleaf blinked. "I understand." She spoke gravely. "You think he might be the fire." Bluestar nodded. "How will you know if you are right?" "I'll ask Graypaw to stalk him for awhile. See how he handles himself. Then I'll decide whether he could really be a clan cat." Her paws began to prick with excitment that she hadn't felt for moons. "If he shows promise I'll invite him to join the clan.

Is that not the Promethean fable, that the fire stolen from the gods will light men their way even while it burns their hands?

It all keeps coming back in flashes. Churns you, burns you till it turns you into ashes.

It is among the commonplaces of education that we often first cut off the living root and then try to replace its natural functions by artificial means. Thus we suppress the child's curiosity and then when he lacks a natural interest in learning he is offered special coaching for his scholastic coaching for his scholastic difficulties.

It is in the nature of things that something when started cannot be reversed. Like getting attracted to someone. When the feelings are strong and the fire is lit then nothing can be ever reversed.

It looks like you’ll be dying in Hellfire after all, Captain!” Slaughter shouted. “Just like your family in that Georgia shack did. Ha! Oh yes, I heard their screams inside! It was music to my ears!” Tom shouted back across the flames. “Whether you die by my hands today or not, you’ll be the one in Hell, with your twin Lucifer, you MURDERING BASTARD!

It looked as though the leaves of the autumn forest had taken flight, and were pouring down the valley like a waterfall, like a tidal wave, all the leaves of the hardwoods from here to Hudson’s Bay. It was as if the season’s colors were draining away like lifeblood, as if the year were molting and shedding. The year was rolling down, and a vital curve had been reached, the tilt that gives way to headlong rush. And when the monarch butterflies had passed and were gone, the skies were vacant, the air poised. The dark night into which the year was plunging was not a sleep but an awakening, a new and necessary austerity, the sparer climate for which I longed. The shed trees were brittle and still, the creek light and cold, and my spirit holding its breath.

It rains And rains And rains. But there is a sky above the rain, Nothing can rot the sky. Earth has turned to mud. What of it? The heart of the planet is made of fire, of ardent sun. (from "A Rainy Day")

It seems that in the USA that those who should be jailed respond by targeting those who expose them with termination.

It’s that feeling of being essential, of deep belonging and of community without borders that shines a light into places that might have otherwise remained unexplored. It’s the feeling of peace that can stay present despite the “emptiness” that can be left behind after a fire goes through.

It's tempting to think of red for sun," she said, "but it has to be just a dash, not much. More of a dark orange and a hint of brown. And then white on yellow on white. Not bright white,' she said. 'The kind of white that makes you squint, but in a softer way...' 'Go look at fire for a while. Go spend some time with fire.' Looking at fire was interesting, I have to admit. I sat with a candle for a couple hours. It has these stages of color: the white, the yellow, the red, the tiny spot of blue I'd heard mentioned but never noticed.

It takes a strong man to be with a woman full of fire and stars and all of October.

It was an awkward moment. We were burning down our host's house, a situation which any guest seeks to avoid.

It was a pleasure to burn. It was a special pleasure to see things eaten, to see things blackened and changed. With the brass nozzle in his fists, with this great python spitting its venomous kerosene upon the world, the blood pounded in his head, and his hands were the hands of some amazing conductor playing all the symphonies of blazing and burning to bring down the tatters and charcoal ruins of history. With his symbolic helmet numbered 451 on his stolid head, and his eyes all orange flame with the thought of what came next, he flicked the igniter and the house jumped up in a gorging fire that burned the evening sky red and yellow and black. He strode in a swarm of fireflies. He wanted above all, like the old joke, to shove a marshmallow on a stick in the furnace, while the flapping pigeon-winged books died on the porch and lawn of the house. While the books went up in sparkling whirls and blew away on a wind turned dark with burning.

It was exactly the sort of thing I needed to be reading that afternoon: a story where, no matter how bad things got, you knew everything was going to turn out fine in the end.

It was while I was seated in an easy-chair in the street the following evening, smoking, watching the combustion of this structure, that something was suddenly born in me, something out of Hell, and I smiled a smile that never man smiled. And I said: 'I will burn: I will return to London...

I've written you sixty-seven love poems. Here’s another one for you. But really, for me. These poems are the candles that I light with the fire you have ignited in me. I place this candle here and another there so even if the stars have argued with the moon and are sulking away in a corner, you can still find your way to me. Sixty-eight poems now. What does the future hold for us? Joy? Disappointment? Gentle caresses? And subtle neglect? I hope the good is more than the bad. Much more. For what is the point of love if by lighting these candles our own flame loses its brightness? I know the good is more than the bad. Much more. I cannot wait to write you sixty-nine.

I tried to hold fire once...see from a distance it mesmerized me captivated me for hours at a time The more it danced with the wind, I felt my body sway to its rhythm I tried to hold fire once It's glow drew me in closer And although I know full well the damage that fire can do... Staring directly at it, I know it's beauty too It's warmth was now on my face and I couldn't imagine being in any other place I reached out with my bare hands & it danced even more And suddenly I felt it's heat deep within my core Rising like a volcano ready to erupt But somehow balanced & purposeful I tried to hold fire once until I realized that fire held me Passionately and I was it's guiding force. If you look close enough, you'll see it dancing in my eyes, feel it in my touch, even hear it in my voice...but don't ever forget that fire consumes and cannot be contained so I must master my energetic output to control the flames.

May the fire in your soul, burn down all the fences and walls which this society is trying to build around you.

Money is like fire. It is only good when there's just the right amount of it, when it's properly contained and under your control.

Most fires crackle and pop, but that's not really the fire talking, it's the wood. To hear the fire itself you need a huge blaze like this one, a furnace so powerful it roars with its own wind. I crouched as close as I dared and listened to its voice, a whispered howl of joy and rage.

Mountain may want to be with the stream To climb the hills perhaps a river's dream What we want exactly we may never know Flame of fire might love to melt with the snow

Musicians do not get on stage without hearing the song singing inside of them. Poets do not write as if they are jotting down a sermon, they see everything in their subconscious before presenting it to the conscious, which they later turn to  readable materials. Artist do not draw and paint without painting in dream states, trance, or see an art form that others do not see. Being creative does not calls for being any supernatural entity, but in creating with the entities inside of you.

My bridled soul leaps under the pressure of desires, Chained i am by this organic-societal form from galloping free My mind heaves me to safety,but heart is ready for doom... An all knowing glance pierced deep through my skin Smiling at my ailing and confused form, Invading my senses, feeding them to the eternal fires...

My dreams are all of fire – mother says dreams usually go by opposites, so does that mean the world will end in ice?

My GOD is a consuming fire and He answers by FIRE! His fire surrounds me and burns inside of me. My faith has been tested in the fire. My faith in Him is unwavering, therefore I shall not be moved. I cannot fail because He will NEVER fail me.

My son will not allow any fires tonight," Gaea said from the depths of the warehouse. "He is the void that consumes all magic, the cold that consumes all fire, the silence that consumes all speech." Leo wanted to shout: "And I’m the dude that’s all out of here!

Never start a fire, especially if there is no water nearby.

- Non le succede qualche volta, guardando la forma del fuoco, di provare una strana sensazione? - chiese a Miyake. - Cioè? - Sentire in modo stranamente preciso delle cose che nella vita di tutti i giorni di solito non percepiamo. Non so come dire...non sono brava a esprimermi, ma a stare così a guardare il fuoco, senza alcuna ragione provo una sensazione di pace. Miyake ci pensò su. - La forma del fuoco è libera. E siccome è libera, chi la guarda può vederci qualunque cosa. Se lei guardando il fuoco prova una sensazione di pace, è perché la sensazione di pace che ha dentro ci si riflette. Capisce cosa intendo? - Sì. - Però, non si può dire che questo succeda guardando le fiamme di qualsiasi fuoco. Perché accada, le fiamme devono essere libere.

No wood, no fire.

Now the fire rises and offers a dozen, singing, deep-red roses of flame.

... only a seer or a lover would know that I'm making a jewelry of words for you -drawn from your essence -to flash and burn with your fire -so you can bedazzle with your own light ...

Other dancers weave through our lives, sometimes stirring our deep soul's fires.

Our life is a faint tracing on the surface of mystery. The surface of mystery is not smooth, any more than the planet is smooth; not even a single hydrogen atom is smooth, let alone a pine. Nor does it fit together; not even the chlorophyll and hemoglobin molecules are a perfect match, for, even after the atom of iron replaces the magnesium, long streamers of disparate atoms trail disjointedly from the rims of the molecule’s loops. Freedom cuts both ways. Mystery itself is as fringed and intricate at the shape of the air at times. Forays into mystery cut bays and fine fjords, but the forested mainland itself is implacable both in its bulk and in its most filigreed fringe of detail.

Out of all the things you would expect when facing a dragon, silence was not on the list. Roaring? Certainly! Snarling? Why, yes - of course! Fire-breathing? Couldn’t possibly do without it. Wouldn’t feel right if it wasn’t there. But silence? No. Definitely not. It was as out of place as a potter at a blacksmith’s.

Passion without perseverance is fire without fuel.

It is the fire that consumes me; It is an inexplicable love, It is the rain that calms me; It is a melody from above. It is the wind that humbles me; It is everywhere and nowhere, It is the sand that fuels me; It is the artistry of nature. I’m consumed by what I am, I’m calmed by a riotous noise, I’m humbled through arrogance, I’m fueled by what is in poise. I’ve much cherished the mystifying, I’ve heard the unreal symphonies, I’ve been moved by the inevitable, And I’ve hailed the epiphanies.