Quotes About Sparks

The idea of Utopia is mischievous as well as unrealistic. And dull, to boot. Man is born pushing and shoving as the sparks fly upward.

Why must we love where the lightning strikes, and not where we choose?

Unlike the drop-off, pickup was more chaotic and time consuming, and it took twenty minutes before London finally got in the car.

That is the first time you said my name and I like it.

From her hiding place in the brush, a young girl watched, her eyes wide with curiosity. There was a burning smell coming from the pit where flames crackled, sending sparks shooting high. Odd shapes had been carved in the trunks of the circling trees. The

Sparks made a pretty light, but they could also burn.

George sawed with his fiddle, the notes swirling up into night like sparks gusted from a fire.

picnic, lightning)

No spark, no boom.

All her life, she had learned that passion, like fire, was a dangerous thing. It so easily went out of control. It scaled walls and jumped over trenches. Sparks leapt like fleas and spread as rapidly; a breeze could carry embers for miles.

The firemen said there were little fires everywhere," Lexie said. "Multiple points of origin.

But his youthful fire was all composed of sparks from the grindstone; and as the sparks flew off, went out, and never warmed anything ...

They dusted off the electroshock machine, wired me up, and made blue sparks jump off my Johnson. I was definitely in the spirit when they pulled them electrodes of my head, yes sir. Electroshock isn't used anymore. They said in my case they was making an exception, although they didn't give me no explanation on that. Put me naked in an isolation cell and hosed me down with ice-cold water, too, he said...

CHAPTER 36 "Our brightest blazes are often kindled by unexpected sparks." —Isaiah

When I first started reading about the kabbalists, I would hear about them being seen in strange places. It would turn out that they were doing some kind of spiritual work to elevate the sparks. In my life and career, I've had the opportunity to find myself where I could make some spiritual moves, to do some work that is spiritually important.

It's been a prevalent notion. Fallen sparks. Fragments of vessels broken at the Creation. And someday, somehow, before the end, a gathering back to home. A messenger from the Kingdom, arriving at the last moment. But I tell you there is no such message, no such home -- only the millions of last moments . . . nothing more. Our history is an aggregate of last moments.

The snow whispered down in the stillness and the sparks rose and dimmed and died in the eternal blackness.

The night was cold and clear and the sparks rising from the fire raced hot and red among the stars.

and the filthy hides of which they'd divested themselves smoked and stank and blackened in the flames and the red sparks rose like the souls of the small life they'd harbored.

They forked up in the air for him, like trees branching in the night, and rained down sparks. They roared and whispered with their crackling voices, they had danced when he said the word. The flames here were both tame and mutinous, strange, silent beasts that sometimes bit the hand that fed them. Only occasionally, on cold nights when there was nothing but the flames to stave off his loneliness, did he think he heard them calling to him, but they whispered words he didn't understand.

We all have a destiny, a dharma to fulfill, and there are endless opportunities, people, and circumstances that surface throughout our lives to illuminate our path. The incidents and the people create tiny sparks that cause us to recognize, This is for me—this is important; this is why I'm here. Those sparks are signals to pay attention and be astonished and know that those little sparks are being ignited by the same Divine Source that is responsible for all of creation.

The idea is to spin the wheel of metaphors and images until sparks of associations begin to fly for the reader.

The night crackled ... Everything had turned to static electricity in the heat. I combed my hair to watch the sparks fly from the ends.

His guitar bore his longing up into the darkness like sparks, a music profound in its objectless desire, beautiful beyond solace or solution