Best 3882 quotes in «fire quotes» category

That day in the park when we sat together, I knew that some day you might drop by, with fire or friendship.

That fire you see can't last. Still, as it burns, it lights everything.

That night my mother had what she considered a wonderful dream. She dreamed of the country of India, where she had never been. There were orange traffic cones and beautiful lapis lazuli insects with mandibles of gold. A young girl was being led through the streets. She was taken to a pyre where she was wound in a sheet and placed up on a platform built from sticks. The bright fire that consumed her brought my mother into that deep, light, dreamlike bliss. The girl was being burned alive, but, first, there had been her body, clean and whole.

That night Serena dressed to meet Zahi. She used a metallic green eye shadow on the top lids and the outer half of the bottom lids so that her eyes looked like a jungle cat's. Two coats of black mascara completed them, and then she smudged a light gold gloss on her lips. She took a red skirt from the closet. The material was snakelike, shimmering black, then red. She slipped it on and tied the black strings of a matching bib halter around her neck and waist. She painted red-and-black glittering flames on her legs and rubbed glossy shine on her arms and chest. Finally, she took the necklace she had bought at the garage sale and fixed it in her hairline like the headache bands worn by flappers back in the 1920's. The jewels hung on her forehead, making her look like an exotic maharani. She sat at her dressing table and painted her toenails and fingernails gold, then looked in the mirror. A thrill jolted through her as it always did. No matter how many times she saw her reflection after the transformation, her image always astonished her. She looked supernatural, a spectral creature, green eyes large, skin glowing, eyelashes longer, thicker. Everything about her was more forceful and elegant- an enchantress goddess. She couldn't pull away from her reflection. It was as if the warrior in her had claimed the night.

That which abides the fire shall become clean. The water of separation shall purify. The Lord is a consuming fire. That which can't abide the fire shall go through water.

The all-encompassing cure for cancer, heartbreak, irrationality, drug addiction, and every other ailment that plagues humanity? Fire.

The ashes wail a gut-wrenching cry. They sing out of anguish, for not just the loss of a home. But for all the losses from my life—each singing their own notes.

The best thing you can ever have is peace of mind, it is a basking fire to keep a cold heart in warmth, and a fortified confidence to be proud of.

The blazing fire burns!

The books in the library were old, rotted, and there was no one left in the world to read them, but Kira made sure that none of them went into the fire. It seemed wrong.

The boys were dancing. The pile was so rotten, and now so tinder-dry, that whole limbs yielded passionately to the yellow flames that poured upwards and shook a great beards of flame twenty feet in the air. For yards round the fire the heat was like a blow, and the breeze was a river of sparks. Trunks crumbled to a white dust.

The burning flame is the fierce fire.

The central ideas of Christianity — an angry God and vicarious atonement — are contrary to every fact in nature, as also to the better aspirations of the human heart; they are, in our present stage of enlightenment, absurd, preposterous, and blasphemous propositions. Christians well know that the much-decorated statue of the Church, as it now stands, is not of pure chiseled marble, but of clay, cemented together by blood and tears and hardened in the fires of hatred and persecution. And still we hear the cry, 'The whole world for Christ'.

The color-patches of vision part, shift, and reform as I move through space in time. The present is the object of vision, and what I see before me at any given second is a full field of color patches scattered just so. The configuration will never be repeated. Living is moving; time is a live creek bearing changing lights. As I move, or as the world moves around me, the fullness of what I see shatters. “Last forever!” Who hasn’t prayed that prayer? You were lucky to get it in the first place. The present is a freely given canvas. That it is constantly being ripped apart and washed downstream goes without saying; it is a canvas, nevertheless. But there is more to the present than a series of snapshots. We are not merely sensitized film; we have feelings, a memory for information and an eidetic memory for the imagery of our pasts. Our layered consciousness is a tiered track for an unmatched assortment of concentrically wound reels. Each one plays out for all of life its dazzle and blur of translucent shadow-pictures; each one hums at every moment its own secret melody in its own unique key. We tune in and out. But moments are not lost. Time out of mind is time nevertheless, cumulative, informing the present. From even the deepest slumber you wake with a jolt- older, closer to death, and wiser, grateful for breath. But time is the one thing we have been given, and we have been given to time. Time gives us a whirl. We keep waking from a dream we can’t recall, looking around in surprise, and lapsing back, for years on end. All I want to do is stay awake, keep my head up, prop my eyes open, with toothpicks, with trees.

The day when the fire that we had lit in our minds reaches our hearts, we will start turning every person that we come in contact with into ashes. We become the ghosts that we always feared.

The dark sky seemed to swallow the moon, as Samantha stood alone on the deserted highway.

The day she realised, it was not about the world but was all about her, she grew the wings. The day she understood she was not answerable to any of them who always blamed and pointed her, she had the fire blazing in her eyes. She raised and soared towards the sky. The whole world looked at her in awe and wished if only they could be her. She was not confined to be on the ground anymore. She had the wings of fire and she left a trail everywhere she went, for other to follow.

The dragon spits fire, what extinguishes its tears. When we live in rancor, we are born to be old. (Le dragon crache du feu, - Ce qui éteint ses larmes. - Quand on vit de rancune, - On naît pour être vieux.)

The demon at length fell to singing a gentle, flickering little song. It was not in any language Sophie knew - or she thought not, until she distinctly heard the word "saucepan" in it several times...

The fire is a flame.

The fire in some people is burning and taking them places. Others have their fire dying slowly because their passion is dwindling. For some, the drive that kept them going is lost, and thus, has extinguished that fire that was once ablaze; they are now waiting for the next opportunity to ignite the fire in them one more time. Others are also at the point where the fire which was once in them has been totally quenched by a heavy rain rendering the source of fuel at their disposal void such that rekindling it becomes impossible. Remember, you are the problem and you are the solution to that problem whichever category you find yourself. Don't look anywhere else for answers as you are the answer to your problems. You ought to start to take steps to get back to the ladder where your flames of success will begin to rekindle. It's possible if only you believe.

The fire alarm went off. Fire engines came racing; we all rushed out on the gravel drive, everyone thinking it was us. In fact, one of the elderly residents of Saltram had left a pan on the oven in her flat. Apparently this happens all the time. The tenant in question is appearing as an extra -- playing one of the cooks.

The fire is coming and even we are not safe in the grave.

The fires of refinement will shine the light of Christ into the dark places of our hearts, burn off the chaff, and restore us to a state of greater purity.

The flames rose and the properties devalued into ash.

The flame of fire burns within.

The fire of revival that destroys all principalities and powers also defeats and demolishes the oppressor – the devil

The fire in you burns as fiercely as it did when I first met you.

The fire? It has been alive as long as I have. We talk and think together all night long. It’s like a book to me – the only book I ever learned to read; and many an old story it tells me. It’s music, for I should know its voice among a thousand, and there are other voices in its roar. It has its pictures too. You don’t know how many strange faces and different scenes I trace in the red-hot coals. It’s my memory, that fire, and shows me all my life.

The hero was the sort of character you could feel yourself falling in love with, no matter how much you tried to convince yourself that he wasn't real

The greatest ideas are the simplest. Now there was something to be done they worked with passion.

There is a fire that burns in soul.

The house was burning, the yellow-red sky was like the sunset...Nothing would be left, the golden ferns and the silver ferns, the orchids, the ginger lilies and the roses...When they had finished, there would be nothing left but blackened walls and the mounting stone. That was always left. That could not be stolen or burned.

The joy of the open fireplace is playing with fire without being accused of playing with fire.

The light of fire is a holy flame.

The Lord’s holy fire lit my path.

The poets say some moths will do anything out of love for a flame [...] The moth takes off again, and we both step back, because he's circling at eye level now and seems to have lost rudder control, smacking into the wall on each round. He circles lower and lower, spinning around the candle in tighter revolutions, like a soap sud over an open drain. A few times he seems to touch the flame, but dances off unhurt. Then he ignites like a ball of hair, curling into an oily puff of fumes with a hiss. The candle flame flickers and dims for a moment, then burns as bright as before. Moth Smoke Lingers.

There are times when the unseen can be even more dangerous than what our eyes behold.

There is fire and starlight in your veins.

... the house is on fire, but go ahead - finish painting the verandah...

Then fire rained down into the souls of the passionate, melting the ice that had kept them frozen in fear. The fire that now shone out from their hearts led the way for the lost. The light lit the darkness, empowering all those who could see. Fuel the fire.

Then held a match to the carpet on the stairs and, once it started burning, raised a finger, like, Quiet, through me runs the power of recent dark experiences.

...then the rushing Pequod, freighted with savages, and laden with fire, and burning a corpse, and plunging into that blackness of darkness, seemed the material counterpart of her monomaniac commander's soul.

The power of classical music turns my words into fire.

There in bed, happiness comes over me. Not like something that belongs to me, but like a wheel of fire rolling through the room and the world.

There is nothing like passion. The fire that burns in our heart.

There is no such thing as magic.” “But you just—” “Things are or they are not, Vasya,” he interrupted. “If you want something, it means you do not have it, it means that you do not believe it is there, which means it will never be there. The fire is or it is not . That which you call magic is simply not allowing the world to be other than as you will it.

There is nothing that can defeat you if it does not first capture your mind.

There's a few things even fire can't destroy.

There's fire and steel at my core, and no world would break me unless I let it.