Let the fires of truth burn away your false life and your excuses, fears, blaming, doubts and illusions of insignificance.
Look up, greet sparks of fire with salted eyes, For he’s a burning atmospheric sigh: One blaze of liquid flame on midnight sky, Soft orbital decay, and last goodbye.
Perhaps the various burnings of the Alexandria Library were necessary, like those Australian Forest Fires without which the new seeds cannot burst their shells and make a young, healthy forest.
Once I had opened a book and read its pages, those characters could never be taken away from me. Even if the books were burned, they would still live on in my mind.
Burning fevers flee no swifter from your body if you toss under figured counterpanes and coverlets of crimson than if you must lie in rude homespun.
The word house didn't begin to do justice for the white and gray structure in front of me. I actually had to tilt my head back to see all the way up to the roof.
Good. If you checked your e-mail every five minutes, or keep texting and Tweeting in the middle of our conversation, I might snap your neck out of sheer principle.
...and on that thin-mooned night, I could see little more than her silhoutte except for when she smoked, the burning cherry of the cigarette washing her face in pale red light.
Both his voice and eyes had the burning cold of alcohol. His strength no longer lay in his military experience or his knowledge of the map, but in his harsh, impetuous soul.
Even from far away, I could see people being chased by hellhounds, burned at the stake, forced to run naked through cactus patches or listen to opera music.
No, you’re not going with him.” I crossed my arms. “Who decided that?” He put on his “I’m alpha and I’m putting my foot down” expression. “I decided.
He said “woman” in the same way I’d say “Mmmmm, yummy chocolate” after waking up from hunger pains and finding a Hershey bar in an empty refrigerator.
A longing for the extraordinary had grabbed ahold of her and was burning her up inside, so hot and fierce that her heart had gone stone cold toward everything and everybody standing in her way. That was Mama. Fire and ice.
And now we who are writing women and strange monsters Still search our hearts to find the difficult answers, Still hope that we may learn to lay our hands More gently and more subtly on the burning sands.
You tasted like fire And I miss that. So, at times I drank a little. And at times, I drank too much. But I only drank Till it burned me enough.
Burn worldly love, rub the ashes and make ink of it, make the heart the pen, the intellect the writer, write that which has no end or limit.
The woman looked out at the madness of the world and dared to hope. Her eyes were burning coals of stars.
The words with which a child's heart is poisoned, whether through malice or through ignorance, remain branded in his memory, and sooner or later they burn his soul.
The demon blood inside me burned my soul to ashes long ago. I am a monster who once dreamed he was a man. Never mistake me again.
She was surprised to find that something from deep down in herself welled into her eyes and burned her cheeks: a few poor tears shed by one who never cried!
I've seen you burn trained vampires to a crisp and swat supernatural beings away with your wings as if they were insects bothering you, and my driving is terrifying?" "Well it's not good.
