4.07 WALK OF LIFE A candle without fire cannot be burning, Man without a spiritual life cannot be living, Yet sitting quietly and nothing even if doing, Spring will come and grass will be growing. [76] - 4
But the true miracle of the resurrection wasn't so much the raising. Is something like that too hard for the God who made the universe? The true miracle is in the forgiving. And though we are bruised and burned, blind and broken, we are forgiven.
The problem in our country isn't with books being banned, but with people no longer reading. You don't have to burn books to destroy a culture. Just get people to stop reading them.
A book is a loaded gun in the house next door. Burn it. Take the shot from the weapon. Breach man's mind. Who knows who might be the target of a well-read man?
It followed then that when Hitler burned a book I felt it as keenly, please forgive me, as his killing a human, for in the long sum of history they are one and the same flesh.
... 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 ...
Wow. What'd he do to deserve that? Rescue orphans from a burning building? If so, you might want to make sure he didn't set the building on fire in the first place.
My candle burns at both ends; It will not last the night; But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends— It gives a lovely light!
Fire is a speed reader, which is why the ignorant burn books: fire races through pages, takes care of all the knowledge, and never bores you with a summary.
I am needed here. Atlantis can burn in the nine hells for all I care. I have sacrificed enough to Poseidon. My days as high priest are done.
There are a holyfuckton of women crowing about your unapologetic fucking. They even named your famous positions." Oh Jesus, she knew about that. "Don't-" "The Limp Away From Jay Lay
Unable to help herself, she traced the tat, startled by the black and red ink mixed together. But it was the dragon design itself that made her skin prickle with awareness, appreciation. Soul-sucking desire.
Just a taste. That was the Cambion policy, our credo. 'Just take enough to appease the spirit, then move on.' It sounded simple enough, but sometimes taking a little was worse than taking none at all.
There is such a thing as the poetry of a mistake, and when you say, "Mistakes were made," you deprive an action of its poetry, and you sound like a weasel.
Death and his scythe do not come. No sweeping black capes or ethereal escapes. There’s no pearly gate, no prisms of colors as his soul slips away. The stillness is cold steel. The silence is empty with no memory to mend it.
You didn’t tell Summer about it, did you?” “What?” Gage scoffs. “Yeah, telling your girlfriend the Angel of Death might visit her if some switch is flipped is normal pillow talk.
He threw his burning cigarette onto our clean living room floor and ground it into the wood with his boot. We were about to become cigarettes.
A brick could be employed to stop global warming, by using it to clog up the world’s smallest volcano. I would use my penis to plug up the hole, but it already burns while I pee enough as it is.
When I remove the layers that say I can't, I discover a burning ember that says I should, I can, and I will.
But did what it does: Simply insisted. Simply burned through. Simply defied. The same shrugging, grinning continuance. The nature of life. The nature of the beast.
I saw sunrises fade and burn among fleets of sparks. The moon blossomed like a lily carved of bone... The Death of the Astronaut, page 390.