Fidles On Fire Quotes

No one knows very much about the life of another. This ignorance becomes vivid, if you love another. Love sets the imagination on fire, and, also, eventually, chars the imagination into a harder element: imagination cannot match love, cannot plunge so deep, or range so wide. ~ James Baldwin

The intense…annoying attraction to the boss is not so enjoyable. Not when he sets my skin on fire with only a side glance from his impenetrable, secretive, blue eyes. It takes all my strength not to scale him like the empire state building and sit on his face for a month. ~ V. Theia

My friend once told me
she liked this guy because of his hands
And I found it absurd that anyone
would develop feelings over one feature,
and not care about the rest

It wasn't until you used your hands
to cup the back of my neck the first time we kissed
and I could feel your firm grasp pull me closer,
and my insides exploded
and my head buzzed with bliss.

And the first night you slept over,
you fell asleep with your hand
laid over my stomach
and your fingers felt like a fire
that I didn't mind burning my skin.

The first time we got drunk,
was the first time you played with my hair,
and my god I was hooked,
I'd drink forever if it meant you'd never stop.

And in public you'd hold my hand,
and rub your thumb in little circles
that left me wanting you more,
no matter what you would never let me go,
I was glued to you,
and I honestly didn't mind

When we talked about breaking up,
you saw my lips quiver with fear,
and you brushed over my lips with your fingers
before pulling me into your lap
and you kissed me like never before.
With your hands on my hips
pulling me so close to you,
leaving no space in between us.
It was then I realized I never wanted you to go

Its now that,
I finally understand why hands
were the only feature that mattered. ~ Carol Shlyakhova

If you have the power to hit people over the head whenever you want, you don't have to trouble yourself too much figuring out what they think is going on, and therefore, generally speaking, you don't. Hence the sure-fire way to simplify social arrangements, to ignore the incredibly complex play of perspectives, passions, insights, desires, and mutual understandings that human life is really made of, is to make a rule and threaten to attack anyone who breaks it. This is why violence has always been the favored recourse of the stupid: it is the one form of stupidity to which it is almost impossible to come up with an intelligent response. It is also of course the basis of the state. ~ David Graeber

The frightened soul ran into the wine cellar with the steel door. I'm safe, Calloway thought, but he was dead wrong. Railrunner's claws slashed through the steel door. They cut through the metal like butter. He then began to pull the door off its hinges.
Suddenly a smoke bomb fell to the floor, making the place vaporous, but Railrunner's eyes could see through it. He discovered the flashing lights of squad cars. His eyes narrowed and he growled low in his throat.
"Come on out with your hands up!" an officer yelled.
Railrunner walked upright towards the entrance. He then pushed the doors off their hinges and stood in the line of fire.
"It's a - roller coaster?" One of the police said baffled, the gun shaking in his hand.
Railrunner crossly walked up to the police. They began to fire, their bullets simply bouncing off of him. He then grabbed the front bumper of the cruiser, and tossed it like a toy. It smashed into another car. Railrunner flung an officer out of his way and roared in sheer amusement. Within a blink of an eye he obliterated the small police force. ~ Miranda Leek

Because if every moment of a life is present in every other, so is every old self you've ever tried to outrun. And then how to know - the present self having always felt flimsy, somehow, compared to the one so acutely alive under the kitchen table - which you, specifically, is the real one? ~ Garth Risk Hallberg

I've learned, from working with translators over the years, that the original novel is, in a way, a translation itself. It is not, of course, translated into another language but it is a translation from the images in the author's mind to that which he is able to put down on paper. Here's a secret. Many novelists, if they are pressed and if they are being honest, will admit that the finished book is a rather rough translation of the book they'd intended to write. It's one of the heartbreaks of writing fiction. You have, for months or years, been walking around with the idea of a novel in your mind, and in your mind it's transcendent, it's brilliantly comic and howlingly tragic, it contains everything you know, and everything you can imagine, about human life on the planet earth. It is vast and mysterious and awe-inspiring. It is a cathedral made of fire. But even if the book in question turns out fairly well, it's never the book that you'd hoped to write. It's smaller than the book you'd hoped to write. It is an object, a collection of sentences, and it does not remotely resemble a cathedral made of fire. It feels, in short, like a rather inept translation of a mythical great work. The translator, then, is simply moving the book another step along the translation continuum. The translator is translating a translation. ~ Michael Cunningham

I feel shock splinter through him, his body going rigid. Then he relaxes, melting into me, stepping forward until I am caught between him and the wall, the torch crackling beside me. His hands slide down my back, over my hips and thighs, leaving a trail of fire. His heart beats fast enough for the both of us, its thunderous pulse echoing through me.
I bury my hands in his dark hair, fingers knotting around those thick locks. Desire pulls at my stomach, and I lean into him, lifting one leg and wrapping it around his waist. He lifts me, and my other leg coils around him, my skirts sliding up my thighs, my back pressed against the column.
His lips are soft and warm and gentle, underlined with barely restrained urgency. I cannot get enough of him. I pull his kurta over his head and let it fall on the floor. I press my hands against his bared chest, feel his heart against my palm, his lungs rising and falling. His shoulder is knotted with the scar from the arrow he took for me. He kisses me again, this time more strongly, and I run my hands down his jaw and neck, over his shoulders, the taut muscles of his back.
He turns, without letting me go or breaking our kiss, and we tumble onto the soft divan. Aladdin holds himself over me, his abdomen clenched and his hair hanging across his forehead. His lips wander downward, to my chin, to the curve of my jaw, to my neck.
My hands are ravenous, exploring the planes and angles of his body. His fingers find mine, and our ~ Jessica Khoury

- so much like riding dangerous women
with whiskey coloured eyes -
such women as once fell dead with their lovers
with fire in their heads and slippery froth on thighs ~ Al Purdy

Happy, not from anything that happens. Warm, not from fire or a hot bath. Light, I register zero on a scale. ~ Rumi

A simple truth delivered in kindness may be the impetus that ignites a passionate fire in another's soul and goes on to become the source of motivation for positive change. ~ Molly Friedenfeld

He wasn't steaming anymore, but the incident on the ice bridge had really freaked Jason out. Leo hadn't seemed to realize that he had smoke coming out his ears and flames dancing through his hair. If Leo started spontaneously combusting every time he got excited, they were going to have a tough time taking him anywhere. Jason imagined trying to get food at a restaurant. I'll have a cheeseburger and - Ahhh! My friend's on fire! Get me a bucket! ~ Rick Riordan

Do you know who wins battles, boy?"
"We do, Father."
"The side that is least drunk," he said, and then, after a pause, "but it helps to be drunk."
"Why?"
"Because a shield wall is an awful place." He gazed into the fire. "I have been in six shield walls," he went on, "and prayed every time it would be the last. ~ Bernard Cornwell

His life had already touched upon the age when everything that breathes of impulse shrinks in a man, when a powerful bow has a fainter effect on his soul and no longer twines piercing music around his heart, when the touch of beauty no longer transforms virginal powers into fire and flame, but all the burnt-out feelings become more accessible to the sound of gold, listen more attentively to its alluring music, and little by little allow it imperceptibly to lull them completely. Fame cannot give pleasure to one who did not merit it but stole it; it produces a constant tremor only in one who is worthy of it. And therefore all his feelings and longings turn toward gold. ~ Nikolai Gogol

Curiously enough, it is a fear of how grace will change and improve them that keeps many souls away from God. They want God to take them as they are and let them stay that way. They want Him to take away their love of riches, but not their riches - to purge them of the disgust of sin, but not of the pleasure of sin. Some of them equate goodness with indifference to evil and think that God is good if He is broad-minded or tolerant about evil. Like the onlookers at the Cross, they want God on their terms, not His, and they shout, "Come down, and we will believe." But the things they ask are the marks of a false religion: it promises salvation without a cross, abandonment without sacrifice, Christ without his nails. God is a consuming fire; our desire for God must include a willingness to have the chaff burned from our intellect and the weeds of our sinful will purged. The very fear souls have of surrendering themselves to the Lord with a cross is an evidence of their instinctive belief in His Holiness. Because God is fire, we cannot escape Him, whether we draw near for conversion or flee from aversion: in either case, He affects us. If we accept His love, its fires will illumine and warm us; if we reject Him, they will still burn on in us in frustration and remorse. ~ Fulton J. Sheen

The Father protects his children, the septons taught, but Davos had led his boys into the fire. Dale would never give his wife the child they had prayed for, and Allard, with his girl in Oldtown and his girl in Kings Landing, and his girl in Braavos, they would all be weeping soon. Matthos would never captain his own ship, as he dreamed. Maric would never have his knighthood.
'How can I live when they are dead? So many brave knights and mighty lords have died, better men than me, and highborn. Crawl inside your cave, Davos. Crawl inside and shrink up small and the ship will go away, and no one will trouble you ever again. Sleep on your stone pillow and let the gulls peck out your eyes while the crabs feast on your flesh. You've feasted on enough of them, you owe them. Hide, smuggler. Hide, and be quiet, and die. ~ George R R Martin

Rafe had sat back in his chair so his face was in the shadow, but she knew he
was watching her through half-closed eyes. When he leaned forward,
the fire from the candles flickered, throwing shadows on the planes
of his face. She could see his eyes clearly now, and their steady focus
was causing her insides to stir. There was romance in the still air; the
rhythm of dripping water from the fountain behind him, the velvet
sky studded with stars, the balmy perfumes of the night, all combined
to accompany the endless song that had begun in her heart again as
she watched him, enthralled. ~ Hannah Fielding

How easily you forgive, Eleanor. How freely you
absolve the sins of others. Tell me, little one, when the
time comes, how will you absolve yours?
With the first lash of the whip Nora felt a strip of fire
burn across her back. She cried out from a pain so
ferocious she nearly choked on it.
Like this, Søren, she dared answer only in her mind.
This is how. ~ Tiffany Reisz

I want this chimney to smoke worse than Lucifer's own fire. Let's add another brick to be certain.
Dougal stiffened. He'd thought they were repairing the chimney, but they wanted it to smoke. What in the hell was going on? ~ Karen Hawkins

Rather than continuing to base our economy on a finite supply of dead things, we can base it on sources that are practically infinite and eternal: the sun, the moon, and the Earth's inner fire. ~ Van Jones

When your neighbour's house is on fire, you should help with a bucket of water. ~ Yahya Jammeh

I've never felt like my career has been on fire. ~ Greg Kinnear

The Fire

When a human is asked about a particular fire,
she comes close:
then it is too hot,
so she turns her face -

and that's when the forest of her bearable life appears,
always on the other side of the fire. The fire
she's been asked to tell the story of,
she has to turn from it, so the story you hear
is that of pines and twitching leaves
and how her body is like neither -

all the while there is a fire
at her back
which she feels in fine detail,
as if the flame were a dremel
and her back its etching glass.

You will not know all about the fire
simply because you asked.
When she speaks of the forest
this is what she is teaching you,

you who thought you were her master. ~ Katie Ford

She is fragile as the morning dew
melting in the warmth of a child's smile;
stirring at the lonely, lovely waft
of a butterfly's wings;
tender as the curve
of a wildflower petal.
She is fierce as a summer storm
now raging against the fiery sky;
now raining tears to soothe
the sun-scorched earth.
She is soft as a midnight breeze
swaying to the sound of waves breaking
on distant shores;
whispering comfort to a world
steeped in the dark night of inhumanity.
She is brilliant as the rising Phoenix
lifting the suffering from the ashes;
her own suffering woven into wings of fire
in the long watches of the night.
She is serene and turbulent as the silvered water
hiding currents unknown beneath the gentle gaze
of a human who has walked a thousand miles and still has more to go. ~ L.R. Knost

Keep your elbows in!" Sturmhond berated Mal. "Stop flapping them like some kind of chicken."
Mal let out a disturbingly convincing cluck.
Tamar raised a brow. "Your friend seems to be enjoying himself."
I shrugged. "Mal's always been like that. You could drop him in a camp full of Fjerdan assassins, and he'd come out carried on their shoulders. He just blooms wherever he's planted."
"And you?"
"I'm more of a weed," I said drily.
Tamar grinned. In combat, she was cold and silent fire, but when she wasn't fighting, her smiles came easily. "I like weeds," said said, pushing herself off from the railing and gathering her scattered lengths of rope. "They're survivors. ~ Leigh Bardugo

Mike Morrison, vice president and dean of the University of Toyota, likes to ask employees: "What's on the other side of your card?" In other words, the front of your business card may read "Managing Director," but you may better identify with "big picture thinker" or "educator" or "calm under fire." This kind of information - or even a few simple details like where a person lives, what his or her favorite hobby is - cuts through the red tape to get somewhere more meaningful, and it can more immediately and effectively forge a connection between two people. ~ Shawn Achor

The apocalypse doesn't have to be fire and brimstone. It could happen on a personal level. If you believe you're the center of your own universe and you want to see the universe destroyed, it only takes one bullet. ~ Marilyn Manson

I did mostly good things, except light things on fire. ~ Mark Hoppus

I see it in colors," I said. "A deep blue, fading into golds and reds - like fire on a horizon. Afterlight. It's a sky that wants you to guess if the sun is about to rise or set. ~ Alexandra Bracken

(The feast-room in GUNNAR'S house. The entrance-door is in the back; smaller doors in the side-walls. In front, on the left, the greater high-seat; opposite it on the right, the lesser. In the middle of the floor, a wood fire is burning on a built-up hearth. In the background, on both sides of the door, are daises for the women of the household. From each of the high-seats, a long table, with benches, stretches backwards, parallel with the wall. It is dark outside; the fire lights the room.) ~ Henrik Ibsen

Sonnet XVII
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way than this:
where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep. ~ Pablo Neruda