Quotes About Smoke

Considering the circumstances, it was a rather good kiss. In reality, it would have been perfect if they both had not been coughing from the smoke.

Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs; Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes; Being vex'd a sea nourish'd with lovers' tears: What is it else? a madness most discreet, A choking gall and a preserving sweet.

There can no great smoke arise, but there must be some fire.

Gossip is a sort of smoke that comes from the dirty tobacco-pipes of those who diffuse it; it proves nothing but the bad taste of the smoker.

Suddenly Star Wars came out while we were on hiatus, and we looked like the old Buck Rogers series, where they had cigarette smoke blowing out the back of the rocket ship.

Blue is the smoke of wrar, white the bones of men.

There is a peculiar burning odor in the room, like explosives. the kitchen fills with smoke and the hot, sweet, ashy smell of scorched cookies. The war has begun.

His skin, his whole being, radiates heat from being so near the fire, and I close my eyes, soaking in his warmth. I breathe in the smell of snow-dampened leather and smoke and apples, the smell of all those wintry days we shared before the Games. I don't try to move away. Why should I, anyway? His voice drops to a whisper. "I love you.

Laughter changes to screams, blood stains pastel stones, real smoke darkens the special effect stuff made for television.

Convincing - and confident - disciplines, say, physics, tend to use little statistical backup, while political science and economics, which have never produced anything of note, are full of elaborate statistics and statistical "evidence" (and you know that once you remove the smoke, the evidence is not evidence).

In a letter to Benjamin Franklin he described how the explosion of the Augusta created a cloud like none other he had ever seen: "a thick smoke rising like a pillar and spreading from the top like a tree." It did not become the symbol of a new and terrible age of destruction for another 168 years, but in the fall of 1777 the skyline of Philadelphia was darkened by the shadow of the mushroom cloud.

YOU DON'T SMELL FIRE, I yelled. YOU SMELL SMOKE.

Carrying their flints and torches, Native Americans were living in balance with Nature—but they had their thumbs on the scale. Shaped for their comfort and convenience, the American landscape had come to fit their lives like comfortable clothing. It was a highly successful and stable system, if "stable" is the appropriate word for a regime that involves routinely enshrouding miles of countryside in smoke and ash.

Carrying their flints and torches, Native Americans were living in balance with Nature—but they had their thumbs on the scale. Shaped for their comfort and convenience, the American landscape had come to fit their lives like comfortable clothing. It was a highly successful and stable system, if "stable" is the appropriate word for a regime that involves routinely enshrouding miles of countryside in smoke and ash. And

Toma un puro, Sherlock. - Lo siento; sólo echo humo cuando me enchufan a la red eléctrica.

Each word, as someone once wrote, contains the universe. The visible carries all the invisible on its back. Tonight, in the unconditional, what moves in the long-limbed grasses, what touches me As though I didn't exist? What is it that keeps on moving, a tiny pillar of smoke Erect on its hind legs, loose in the hollow grasses? A word I don't know yet, a little word, containing infinity, Noiseless and unrepentant, in sift through the dry grass.

A few flat clouds folded themselves like crepes over fillings of apricot sky. Pompadours of supper-time smoke billowed from chimneys, separating into girlish pigtails as the breeze combed them out, above the slate rooftops. Chestnut blossoms, weary from having been admired all day, wore faint smiles of anticipation.

Never did he once consider directing his hatred toward the hunters. Such an emotion would have destroyed him ... His subconscious knew what his min did not guess-that hating them would have consumed him, burned him up like a piece of soft coal, leaving only flakes of ash and a question mark of smoke.

You revel in the smoke that the words send up.

How humid the heart, its messy rooms! We eat spicy food, sweat like wood and smolder like the coal mine that caught fire decades ago, yet still smokes more than my great-uncle who will not quit- or go out-

And though at nine I wasn't sure what an "agent" was, I knew she must be extremely important to make even my parents nervous. Besides, I was afraid of anyone I didn't know, let alone someone hiding behind a shroud of smoke. My imagination began to get the best of me. It was like we were in the presence of the Wizard. Instead of "I am the Great and Terrible Oz," she was the Great and Terrible Agent.

By night the skyscraper looms in the smoke and the stars and has a soul.

At the precise moment when heat is produced, the process is irreversible: the past differs from the future. It is always heat and only heat that distinguishes the past from the future. This is universal. A burning candle is transformed into smoke, the smoke cannot transform into a candle-and a candle produces heat. A boiling hot cup of tea cools down and does not heat up: it diffuses heat. We live and get old: producing heat through friction.

I can't cook. I use a smoke alarm as a timer.