Quotes About Heat

IN THE NIGHT, I woke up wailing. The worst thing about the explosion was how I carried it in my body—the heat, the bone-jar and slam of it. In my dreams, there was always a light way out and a dark way out. I had to go the dark way, because the bright way was hot and flickering with fire. But the dark way was where the bodies were.

What you had in Florida was just heat. Heat that was fine and pleasant about a third of the time, a little uncomfortable about a third of the time, and a third of the time like walking through steam. Like walking through clouds of your own sweat.

the captain decided to hoist sail and move a little westward, on the chance that the fog was hugging the coast of the Island. This was likely; land heats up and cools down faster than water, which caused early fogs over many seacoasts in warm weather.

The heat comes off the music.

A thin spider web of sweat draped itself over his forehead, spreading into his hair.

Never kick a cow turd on a hot day. Harry Truman said that. Words to live by.

My blood burned withing me.

A man who has been dead for a week in a hot trailer looks more like a man than you would first expect.

You're feeling the flames, Ezra, but that's part of the process. This pot I just made won't be useful for anything until it goes through that fire." He pointed to the kiln, where waves of heat shimmered above it. "The pots baking in there right now would be useless if they didn't endure the heat.

The U.S. palate now understands spicy.

The bottom line is that heat kills more people than any other natural disaster, and yet heat waves go unnamed.

The bottom line is that heat kills more people than any other natural disaster, and yet heat waves go unnamed. They do not blow in with 100-mile-per-hour winds, a blistering, swirling shadowlike image on radar with a defined eye, or shake the ground in an intense display of drama. No. Heat is a silent killer. It slowly and stealthily moves into a region like a ghost, targeting the vulnerable and unsuspecting.

There is no refreshment more gratifying to the soul than the sight of Nature in her summer finery, before the heat is at its most intense. She is soothing, but not soporific; intoxicating without inebriation.

Men's faces are heavy with anger, but there are no more fights—it is too hot. They lie in the dark and hate each other.

Here under St. Michael's Tower sat these three figures, the lean shabby-genteel John, the hulking weather-bleached Sam, the black-coated Mr. Evans—all atheists towards the life-giving Sun-God, and all expanding now, in their thoughts, their feelings, their secretest hopes, because of the victory of vapour over light and of dampness over heat!

In spite of the air conditioning, she had filled the lounge with a faint sharp-sweet odor of large overheated girl.

They filed in, dressed for the day in short-sleeve shirts and cotton dresses. As they took their seats, a bailiff handed each a funeral fan—a decorative piece of cardboard glued to a stick—as if flapping it back and forth in front of their noses would bring relief from the stifling heat. Many of the spectators were already waving them.

Houses nearby were burning, and when huge drops of water the size of marbles began to fall, he half thought that they must be coming from the hoses of firemen fighting the blazes. (They were actually drops of condensed moisture falling from the turbulent tower of dust, heat, and fission fragments that had already risen miles into the sky above Hiroshima.)

the sun was blazing all around them and the rays of sun were shooting past them, millions of rays shooting past them like- like golden machine-gun fire.

I was having an out-of-body experience, it was so hot. I felt I was watching someone play in a blue dress, and it wasn't me.

His flesh was hot as a brazier, and I pressed as close as he would let me, like a lizard to noonday rocks.

However gold he shines, do not forget his fire

There was a quality to her that is hard to describe, a fervency, a heat that went to your head. I had expected her to be beautiful, for she walked like a queen of the gods, but it was an odd beauty, not like my mother's or sister's. Each of her features alone was nothing, her nose too sharp, her chin over-strong. Yet together they made a whole like the heart of a flame. You could not look away.

In the heat of the Russian summer a sleeping car is the most horrible instrument of martyrdom imaginable.