Fireman Sayings Quotes

It’s so fucking cheap when people say I love you. It’s a name to stick on a surge of hormones, with a little hint of loyalty thrown in. I’ve never liked saying it. Here’s what I say: We’re together, now and until the end. You have everything I need to be happy. You make me feel right.

When people say they are happy for you it may mean they are sad for themselves.

Someone probably a lot smarter than me said hell is other people. I say you’re in hell when you don’t give to someone who needs, because you can’t bear to have less. What you are giving away then is your own soul.

She asked me to say something sexy to her, so I whispered, “I’m a fireman.

If there were no war, if there was peace in the world, I'd say fine, have fun! But, Montag, you mustn't go back to being just a fireman. All isn't well with the world.

Someone probably a lot smarter than me said hell is other people. I say you're in hell when you don't give to someone who needs, because you can't bear to have less.

Dear me, what would this barren vocabulary get out of the mightiest spectacle?—the burning of Rome in Nero's time, for instance? Why, it would merely say, 'Town burned down; no insurance; boy brast a window, fireman brake his neck!' Why, THAT ain't a picture!

No, you mustn’t! If there were no war, if there was peace in the world, I’d say fine, have fun! But, Montag, you mustn’t go back to being just a fireman. All isn’t well with the world.

I say you’re in hell when you don’t give to someone who needs, because you can’t bear to have less.

When I love, I love hard. You’re stuck with me for good. In your news report, you didn’t say what happened at the end of the bumpy ride. You didn’t say what it takes to break the curse. But I know. True Love. the kind that doesn’t go away because of a few disasters along the way. I love you, Melissa.

If you ask most little boys what they want to be when they grow up, they say things like fireman, elite esports athlete, or brothel manager. But not me. I wanted something sexy. I wanted to be a duck farmer.

I fucking think they fucking belong the fuck to me, I can swear too, mate, I'm English. We swear without fear. The C-word? We say that too: cunt cunt cunty cunt cuntcunt. Go on, now. Get lost, you loudmouthed cunt.

Carol says we speak with one voice. What she doesn't say is that voice belongs to HER. There's only one song to sing these days--Carol's song--and if you aren't in harmony, you can stick a stone in your mouth and shut the hell up.

But the thing about my granddad is . . . it’s kind of hard to convince him people won’t just do the right thing. You hate to say anything that sounds hostile or untrusting or small-hearted around him. You feel like he’d be disappointed in you.

Silence is the purest form of harmony. Everyone ought to try it. Put a stone in your mouth instead of a lie. Put a rock on your tongue instead of gossip. Bury the liars and the wicked under stones until they say no more. More weight, hallelujah.

One last thing,” said Beatty. “At least once in his career, every fireman gets an itch. What do the books say, he wonders. Oh, to scratch that itch, eh? Well, Montag, take my word for it, I’ve had to read a few in my time, to know what I was about, and the books say nothing! Nothing you can teach or believe. They’re about nonexistent people, figments of imagination, if they’re fiction. And if they’re nonfiction, it’s worse, one professor calling another an idiot, one philosopher screaming down another’s gullet. All of them running about, putting out the stars and extinguishing the sun. You come away lost.

Who says we're smart?' she asked, in a tone of playful contempt. 'We never even mastered fire. We thought we did, but you see now, it has mastered us.

A thousand prayers every minute everywhere and what does God ever say back? Nothing! Because silence never lies. Silence is God's final advantage. Silence is the purest form of harmony. Everyone ought to try it.

I say you're in hell when you don't give to someone who needs, because you can't bear to have less. What you are giving away then is your own soul. You have to care for each other or you walk on cinders, a matchstick ready to be struck.

I say you’re in hell when you don’t give to someone who needs, because you can’t bear to have less. What you are giving away then is your own soul. You have to care for each other or you walk on cinders, a matchstick ready to be struck.

You won’t do anyone any good if you drop dead of exhaustion,” she said to Harper once. I won’t do anyone any good if I don’t, Harper imagined saying back. I’m not doing anyone any good, one way or another. But she didn’t say it. It would’ve been grief talking, and it was unfair to unload her sadness

It shocked me to see Mrs.Phelps cry. Maybe they're right, maybe it's best not to face things, to run have fun. I don't know. I feel guilty—" "No, you mustn't! If there were no war, if there was peace in the world, I'd say fine, have fun! But, Montag, you mustn't go back to being just a fireman. All isn't well with the world.

A cell phone rang from the end table to my right and Kristen bolted up straight. She put her beer on the coffee table and dove across my lap for her phone, sprawling over me. My eyes flew wide. I’d never been that close to her before. I’d only ever touched her hand. If I pushed her down across my knees, I could spank her ass. She grabbed her phone and whirled off my lap. “It’s Sloan. I’ve been waiting for this call all day.” She put a finger to her lips for me to be quiet, hit the Talk button, and put her on speaker. “Hey, Sloan, what’s up?” “Did you send me a potato?” Kristen covered her mouth with her hand and I had to stifle a snort. “Why? Did you get an anonymous potato in the mail?” “Something is seriously wrong with you,” Sloan said. “Congratulations, he put a ring on it. PotatoParcel.com.” She seemed to be reading a message. “You found a company that mails potatoes with messages on them? Where do you find this stuff?” Kristen’s eyes danced. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Do you have the other thing though?” “Yeeeess. The note says to call you before I open it. Why am I afraid?” Kristen giggled. “Open it now. Is Brandon with you?” “Yes, he’s with me. He’s shaking his head.” I could picture his face, that easy smile on his lips. “Okay, I’m opening it. It looks like a paper towel tube. There’s tape on the—AHHHHHH! Are you kidding me, Kristen?! What the hell!” Kristen rolled forward, putting her forehead to my shoulder in laughter. “I’m covered in glitter! You sent me a glitter bomb? Brandon has it all over him! It’s all over the sofa!” Now I was dying. I covered my mouth, trying to keep quiet, and I leaned into Kristen, who was howling, our bodies shaking with laughter. I must not have been quiet enough though. “Wait, who’s with you?” Sloan asked. Kristen wiped at her eyes. “Josh is here.” “Didn’t he have a date tonight? Brandon told me he had a date.” “He did, but he came back over after.” “He came back over?” Her voice changed instantly. “And what are you two doing? Remember what we talked about, Kristen…” Her tone was taunting. Kristen glanced at me. Sloan didn’t seem to realize she was on speaker. Kristen hit the Talk button and pressed the phone to her ear. “I’ll call you tomorrow. I love you!” She hung up on her and set her phone down on the coffee table, still tittering. “And what did you two talk about?” I asked, arching an eyebrow. I liked that she’d talked about me. Liked it a lot. “Just sexually objectifying you. The usual,” she said, shrugging. “Nothing a hot fireman like you can’t handle.” A hot fireman like you.I did my best to hide my smirk. “So do you do this to Sloan a lot?” I asked. “All the time. I love messing with her. She’s so easily worked up.” She reached for her beer. I chuckled. “How do you sleep at night knowing she’ll be finding glitter in her couch for the next month?” She took a swig of her beer. “With the fan on medium.” My laugh came so hard Stuntman Mike looked up and cocked his head at me. She changed the channel and stopped on HBO. Some show. There was a scene with rose petals down a hallway into a bedroom full of candles. She shook her head at the TV. “See, I just don’t get why that’s romantic. You want flower petals stuck to your ass? And who’s gonna clean all that shit up? Me? Like, thanks for the flower sex, let’s spend the next half an hour sweeping?” “Those candles are a huge fire hazard.” I tipped my beer toward the screen. “Right? And try getting wax out of the carpet. Good luck with that.” I looked at the side of her face. “So what do you think is romantic?” “Common sense,” she answered without thinking about it. “My wedding wouldn’t be romantic. It would be entertaining. You know what I want at my wedding?” she said, looking at me. “I want the priest from The Princess Bride. The mawage guy.

Don’t waste your time trying to look all bad at me. See, I know you, man,” Howard said. “School Bus Sam. Mr. Fireman. You go all heroic, but then you disappear. Don’t you? It kind of comes and goes with you. Everyone last night is all, ‘Where’s Sam? Where’s Sam?’ And I had to say, ‘Well, kids, Sam is off with Astrid the Genius because Sam can’t be hanging out with regular people like us. Sam has to go off with his hot blond girlfriend.’” “She’s not my girlfriend,” Sam said, and instantly regretted it. Howard laughed, delighted to have provoked him. “See, Sam, you always got to be in your own little world, too good for everyone, while me and Captain Orc and our boys here, we’re always going to be around. You step away, and we step up.

Selfishness is as bad as kerosene. When someone is cold and you share your blanket, you're both warmer than you would have been alone. You offer the sick your medicine and their happiness will be your medicine. Someone probably a lot smarter than me said hell is other people. I say you're in hell when you don't give to someone who needs, because you can't bear to have less. What you are giving away then is your own soul. You have to care for each other or you walk on cinders, a matchstick ready to be struck. That's what I believe, anyway. Do you believe it?

At least once in his career, every fireman gets an itch. What do the books say, he wonders. Oh, to scratch that itch, eh? Well, Montag, take my word for it, I’ve had to read a few in my time, to know what I was about, and the books say nothing! Nothing you can teach or believe. They’re about nonexistent people, figments of imagination, if they’re fiction. And if they’re nonfiction, it’s worse, one professor calling another an idiot, one philosopher screaming down another’s gullet. All of them running about, putting out the stars and extinguishing the sun. You come away lost.

When you were young, let us say that you wanted to be a fireman. I feel reasonably safe in saying that you no longer want to be a fireman. Why? Because your perspective has changed. It’s not the fireman who has changed, but you. Every man is the sum total of his reactions to experience. As your experiences differ and multiply, you become a different man, and hence your perspective changes…So we do not strive to be firemen, we do not strive to be bankers, nor policemen, nor doctors. We strive to be ourselves…The goal is absolutely secondary: it is the functioning toward the goal which is important.

Come for a walk, dear. The air will do you good." Raoul thought that she would propose a stroll in the country, far from that building which he detested as a prison whose jailer he could feel walking within the walls... the jailer Erik... But she took him to the stage and made him sit on the wooden curb of a well, in the doubtful peace and coolness of a first scene set for the evening's performance. On another day, she wandered with him, hand in hand, along the deserted paths of a garden whose creepers had been cut out by a decorator's skillful hands. It was as though the real sky, the real flowers, the real earth were forbidden her for all time and she condemned to breathe no other air than that of the theatre. An occasional fireman passed, watching over their melancholy idyll from afar. And she would drag him up above the clouds, in the magnificent disorder of the grid, where she loved to make him giddy by running in front of him along the frail bridges, among the thousands of ropes fastened to the pulleys, the windlasses, the rollers, in the midst of a regular forest of yards and masts. If he hesitated, she said, with an adorable pout of her lips: "You, a sailor!" And then they returned to terra firma, that is to say, to some passage that led them to the little girls' dancing-school, where brats between six and ten were practicing their steps, in the hope of becoming great dancers one day, "covered with diamonds..." Meanwhile, Christine gave them sweets instead. She took him to the wardrobe and property-rooms, took him all over her empire, which was artificial, but immense, covering seventeen stories from the ground-floor to the roof and inhabited by an army of subjects. She moved among them like a popular queen, encouraging them in their labors, sitting down in the workshops, giving words of advice to the workmen whose hands hesitated to cut into the rich stuffs that were to clothe heroes. There were inhabitants of that country who practiced every trade. There were cobblers, there were goldsmiths. All had learned to know her and to love her, for she always interested herself in all their troubles and all their little hobbies. She knew unsuspected corners that were secretly occupied by little old couples. She knocked at their door and introduced Raoul to them as a Prince Charming who had asked for her hand; and the two of them, sitting on some worm-eaten "property," would listen to the legends of the Opera, even as, in their childhood, they had listened to the old Breton tales.

The taxi driver has told me his entire life story for only 97 kroner, but from his story I gather what really happened: he got drunk last night and had a hangover this morning. He was about to call in sick but then remembered all his unpaid bills and went to work anyway. He quit working at sea and went ashore because he couldn’t keep his job. When he was no longer able to control his drinking, he was urged to quit his job as a fireman and now he earns a living driving a taxi. He has never been close to his mum but now that she doesn’t have much time left, he tries to show that he’s a good son. His wife left him. He gives money to his daughter in order to keep in touch with her … He wants to be heard. He wants to exist. He tries to avoid being lonely by talking about himself. If he had bothered to ask me, I would have told him that I just witnessed a child’s first breath, but I don’t give a fuck that he didn’t ask. Today, I resist the temptation to criticise anybody, and decide to show patience instead. ‘Thank you,’ I say with a smile. ‘Same to you. Have a nice day,’ he answers.

Voilà,” he said as he completed the procedure. Ulf smiled. He was pleased that he had a vet who said voilà. It was not necessarily what one expected from somebody whose profession was so physical, so matter-of-fact. Chefs might say voilà as they extracted some elaborate creation from the oven; an artist might say voilà as he put the final touch of paint to the canvas; a couturier might utter the word as he revealed a new outfit—but not a vet; nor, for that matter, a dentist, nor, a fortiori, a fireman, as he played the final jet of water over the dying embers of a fire.

Say, Joe, I know where you can book passage!” “Where?” “At Klack’s Agency. It’s not far from here. Next block.” He led the way to a dingy-looking establishment with several blackboards in the window. On them were chalked such legends as Cook Wanted, Fireman (First Class) for S.A., Cruise and Stokers Wanted. “A lot of freighter crews are signed up here,” Biff explained. “I’ve heard they book passengers as a sideline.

Daredevil: "You want to use what's on that drive just to avenge your husband? It's not worth it. You're special I get it. . .I mean it. The bad guys took somebody you love, and it hurt worse than anything you could ever have imagined. Me, too. They took my dad. Your buddy, Frank? They took his wife AND kids. Want to know who else has that story? Go to the Avengers mansion and throw a stick. Everyone I know has lost someone in that way. And it never stops aching. And I'm sorry, but that does not elevate you. What does make you special is that you have game. Obviously, and focus. I've seen you in action. You've got the stuff. Put it to good use." Rachel Cole-Alves: "You know what gives me strength? My loss. We're alike. Admit it: Nobody who's a stranger to that particular pain could EVER be as driven as us." Daredevil: "NEVER! Don't ever say that to me ever again. That is a repellent statement. It's a vomitous insult to every cop-- every Fireman-- Every soldier alive who steps up to fight for those who can't! I am Sorry for your Loss! But if you genuinely believe that only the Death of a loved one can motivate a human being to take up a cause...then get your pathetic, cynical ass out of my way so I can do my job!

Not if you start talking the sort of talk that might get me burnt for my trouble. The only way I could possibly listen to you would be if somehow the fireman structure itself could be burnt. Now if you suggest that we print extra books and arrange to have them hidden in firemen's houses all over the country, so that seeds of suspicion would be sown among these arsonists, bravo, I'd say!” “Plant the books, turn in an alarm, and see the firemen's houses burn, is that what you mean?

And he talks about the 5 percent, which is Special Operations guys, and how, clinically, we’re all borderline sociopaths. But in my mind we’re not the ones that are messed up; it’s the other 95 percent of the population. We run toward the sound of gunfire. Like the fireman who, when everybody else is running this way, is running into the flames. A cop, anyone who does that sort of work, is in that 5 percent, that personality that we need to get that job done. And be able to do that job and rationalize it, religiously or country or however you deal with it, say, ‘Okay, that was my job, that’s why I did that. But now I’m back and I’m fine.’ 

Confucius say woman should never speak for man." He bit her jaw, working his way toward her mouth. She tapped his shoulder, "What does he say about a crowd watching?" Boyd gazed over his shoulder and then glanced back with an evil smile, Confucius say fuck 'em." And he kissed her long and hard.

The saloon is burning fine. Everything is going up in smoke. Broun and I, we hold on to each other. We see Jo Davidson running to the fire and we nod at him politely. Money makes a big difference, you know. "And then we hear a cry. I recognize Schneider and I see him break loose from the crowd. He runs back into the burning saloon, a fireman after him. Broun and I, we stand and watch. He is probably gone after one of his kids. But I count the kids who are all in the street and they are all there. "Then Schneider comes out and the fireman, too. And they are carrying something. Broun falls against the delicatessen store window and groans. And I close my eyes. Yes, it is the picture. "Schneider sees us and comes rushing. He is half burned up. But the picture is not touched. He and the fireman hand us the picture. As for me, I turn away and I lose command of the English language. "'You boys trusted me,' says Schneider, 'and I remembered just in time. I remembered your picture. I may not be an artist, but I don't let a masterpiece burn up. Not in my saloon.

Daredevil: "You want to use what's on that drive just to avenge your husband? It's not worth it. You're special I get it. . .I mean it. The bad guys took somebody you love, and it hurt worse than anything you could ever have imagined. Me, too. They took my dad. Your buddy, Frank? They took his wife AND kids. Want to know who else has that story? Go to the Avengers mansion and throw a stick. Everyone I know has lost someone in that way. And it never stops aching. And I'm sorry, but that does not elevate you. What does make you special is that you have game. Obviously, and focus. I've seen you in action. You've got the stuff. Put it to good use." Rachel Cole-Alves: "You know what give me strength? My loss. We're alike. Admit it: Nobody who's a stranger to that particular pain could EVER be as driven as us." Daredevil: "NEVER! Don't ever say that to me ever again. That is a repellent statement. IT's a vomitous insult to every cop-- every Fireman-- Every soldier alive who steps up to fight for those who can't! I am Sorry for your Loss! But if you genuinely believe that only the Death of a loved one can motivate a human being to take up a cause...then get your pathetic, cynical ass out of my way so I can do my job!

I've fantasized about kissing this mouth so often," he whispered, voice low and husky, his thumb brushing across my lips now. "You just have no idea what torture is." Immobilized by the soft touch of his fingers cupping my jaw and the gentle, promising sweep of his thumb, I managed to say, "Sometimes it's better just to make your fantasies a reality. The only way to alleviate that torture.

There are shouts from the house, carried across the avenue, and one fireman’s voice lifts above the rest. There’s someone in there, it says. There’s someone in the house.

impossibly low swing while you stand there hunched over, staring into space, begging yourself not to look at your watch yet because zero time has passed in the last seventeen hours; it is the same exact time it was when you arrived at that park, before your butt was wet with something smelly and before you put your hand on a fireman’s pole covered with bird poop, and before someone else’s child sneezed directly into your face. Time stands still when you are a stay-at-home mom, and working moms are always saying, Oof! Where did the day go? and I am always thinking, It did not go. It will never end. I will never get to the part where I sink into a comfy chair with a glass of wine, because this is the longest day of my life. Until tomorrow. So yes, I’m very glad to be sitting in Wendy’s pretty reclaimed-warehouse office with gorgeous architectural details and story-and-a-half paned windows looking out over one of the cutest, busiest hot spots in the city. Wendy has a fancy ergonomic chair and a sit-to-stand desk. Here at her workplace, people care if her body is properly aligned and healthily engaged. They care if she is comfortable. Sometimes Anna Joy comes into our bedroom in the middle of the night,

It’s not a purse—it’s a satchel. And if this were entirely dignified, don’t you think all the guys would be doing it? It’s a core part of the strategy. Men don’t own dogs like this. They own dogs like that.” She pointed to my phone. “It’s adorable. Trust me. You’ll be a chick magnet.” I didn’t care about being a chick magnet, but I liked the idea of having an inside joke with her for some reason. “Okay. You’ve piqued my interest. I’ll test your theory.” “And if I’m right?” “Then I’ll tell you that you were right.” She twisted her lips to one side. “No. Not good enough. If I’m right, you pose in some website pictures with my dog satchels. I need a male model.” Oh God, what have I gotten myself into?“Somehow this whole deal feels like I’m the loser.” I chuckled. Whatever. I was a good sport. “How are you the loser? I’m giving you the opportunity to use my highly trained hunting dog to lure scores of women into your bed.” I smirked. “You know, without sounding like an asshole, I don’t really have a hard time getting women.” She tilted her head. “Yeah, I can see that. You have the whole sexy fireman thing going for you.” She waved a hand over my body. I took a drink of my soda and grinned at her. “So you think I’m sexy, huh?” She pivoted to face me full on. “There’s something you should know about me, Josh. I say what I think. I don’t have a coy bone in my body. Yes, you’re sexy. Enjoy the compliment because you won’t always like what I say to you, and I won’t care one way or the other if you do or don’t.

Kevin Mason, a fireman with Fire Station 88 in Los Angeles, paced back and forth, agitated, in a back room of the First Presbyterian Church in Encino. He was tall, with gray hair and the hardened humor of someone who’d seen people die in his arms. “If there’s a big disaster,” he was saying, “you cannot expect assistance for how many days?” “Three to five days,” forty people recited in a staggered response. “You cannot count on us,” Mason continued. By us, he meant the fire department, the police, the ambulance companies, the national guard—anyone. “So who’s going to get you when there’s an emergency?” “Nobody,” the class thundered. “Nobody’s coming to your aid in a disaster,” Mason said, drilling the point into the head of every student, businessperson, housewife, and grandparent in the room. “You have to be independent.