It is with our passions as it is with fire and water, they are good servants, but bad masters.
You will hear thunder and remember me, And think: she wanted storms. The rim Of the sky will be the colour of hard crimson, And your heart, as it was then, will be on fire.
Good fame is like fire; when you have kindled you may easily preserve it; but if you extinguish it, you will not easily kindle it again.
“I thought that a man can be an enemy of other men, of the moments of other men, but not of a country: not of fireflies, words, gardens, streams of water, sunsets.”
Just as a candle cannot burn without fire, men cannot live without a spiritual life.
Absence is to love as wind is to fire: it extinguishes the little flame, it fans the big.
This universe, which is the same for all, has not been made by any god or man, but it always has been, is, and will be an ever-living fire, kindling itself by regular measures and going out by regular measures.
It is your concern when your neighbor's wall is on fire.
We try gold in fire, we know our friends in mishaps.
You are born an artist or you are not. And you stay an artist, dear, even if your voice is less of a fireworks. The artist is always there.
There is an electric fire in human nature tending to purify - so that among these human creatures there is continually some birth of new heroism. The pity is that we must wonder at it, as we should at finding a pearl in rubbish.
A fire broke out backstage in a theatre. The clown came out to warn the public; they thought it was a joke and applauded. He repeated it; the acclaim was even greater. I think that's just how the world will come to an end: to general applause from wits who believe it's a joke
Life is a strange thing. Why this longing for life? It is a game which no man wins. To live is to toil hard and to suffer sore, till old age creeps heavily upon us and we throw down our hands on the cold ashes of dead fires. It is hard to live. In pain the babe sucks his first breath, in pain the old man gasps his last, and all his days are full of trouble and sorrow; yet he goes down to the open arms of death, stumbling, falling, with head turned backward, fighting to the last. And death is kind. It is only life and the things of life that hurt. Yet we love life and we hate death. It is very strange.
He never jokes/ With anybody/ He says/ He has no time/ To sit around the evening fire.
The mind is not a vessel to be filled, but a fire to be kindled.
Soon became convinced I was right and undertook the task with all the fire and boundless confidence of youth.
The spread of civilization may be likened to a fire; first, a feeble spark, next a flickering flame, then a mighty blaze, ever increasing in speed and power.
Somebody's boring me. I think it's me. When one burns one's bridges, what a very nice fire it makes.
I have sailed many waters, Skirted islands of fire,
Ideas that enter the mind under fire remain there securely and for ever.
Books have the same enemies as people: fire, humidity, animals, weather, and their own content.
Labor to keep alive in your breast that little spark of celestial fire, called conscience.
When you are old and gray and full of sleep, and nodding by the fire, take down this book and slowly read, and dream of the soft look your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep.
Education is not the filling of a pail, but the lighting of a fire.