Lighter Spark Quotes

From space, astronauts can see people making love as a tiny speck of light. Not light, exactly, but a glow that could be mistaken for light--a coital radiance that takes generations to pour like honey through the darkness to the astronaut's eyes. In about one and a half centuries--after the lovers who made the glow will have long been laid permanently on their backs--metropolises will be seen from space. They will glow all year. Smaller cities will also be seen, but with great difficulty. Shtetls will be virtually impossible to spot. Individual couples, invisible. The glow is born from the sum of thousands of loves: newlyweds and teenagers who spark like lighters out of butane, pairs of men who burn fast and bright, pairs of women who illuminate for hours with soft multiple glows, orgies like rock and flint toys sold at festivals, couples trying unsuccessfully to have children who burn their frustrated image on the continent like the bloom a bright light leaves on the eye after you turn away from it. Some nights, some places are a little brighter. It's difficult to stare at New York City on Valentine's Day, or Dublin on St. Patrick's. The old walled city of Jerusalem lights up like a candle on each of Chanukah's eight nights...We're here, the glow...will say in one and a half centuries. We're here, and we're alive.

It wasn’t as if a light had suddenly blinked on; it was more like a sunrise, where the sky grows lighter and lighter, almost imperceptibly, before you realized it was morning.

Things accumulated in purses. Unless they were deliberately unloaded and all contents examined for utility occasionally, one could find oneself transporting around in one's daily life three lipstick cases with just a crumb of lipstick left, an old eyebrow pencil sharpener without a blade, pieces of defunct watch, odd earrings, handkerchiefs (three crumpled, one uncrumpled), two grubby powder puffs, bent hairpins, patterns of ribbon to be matched, a cigarette lighter without fuel (and two with fuel), a spark plug, some papers of Bex and a sprinkling of loose white aspirin, eleven train tickets (the return half of which had not been given up), four tram tickets, cinema and theatre stubs, seven pence three farthings in loose change and the mandatory throat lozenge stuck to the lining. At least, those had been the extra contents of Phyrne's bag the last time Dot had turned it out.

He passed the lighter down the table until Descartes held it in one hand while setting the greasy cylinder down on the table. After smoothing it out, Descartes sparked up the lighter. With the lighter drawn near the grease, the aroma of burnt hair filled the board room.

First published in 1988, A Far Cry from Kensington is a conscious exercise in looking back – it is a novel that announces its own preoccupied insomnia. But its insomnia is unexpectedly pleasant, a beloved wakefulness in the ‘sweet waking hours of the night’ – as if the usual dark night of the soul has been replaced by something much, much lighter.

Where I sat looking out the window one summer night from the fifth floor of our building, and the air was warm and sweet like it is now, and there were the low voices of young couples, their Converses and Air Force Ones tapping against each other on the fire escapes as they worked to make the body speak its other tongues, the sound of matches, or flames sparked from lighters the shape and shine of 9mms or Colt .45s, which was how we turned death into a joke, how we reduced fire to the size of cartoon raindrops, then sucked them through cigarillo tips, like myths.

My arm reaches up. I don't know if I'm reaching for the pipe or for him. I want to touch his skin. I want to breathe in what he breathes. The yellow swirl. I want to be the yellow swirl. I want him to breathe me in, be sent riding on oxygen molecules deep into lungs. I want to travel through his body, seeing what makes him happy, attaching myself to whatever place in him sparks to life on my arrival. His blood. His tissues. His muscles. I want to burrow inside the folds like a wind-blown dusting of snow so that each time I melt away, he seeks me out again. There's no delineation between the pipe and the smoke and his body. It's all whole, I want in. I want him. 'Please,' I say softly, 'let me try.' Without letting go of the pipe, he swings his hand holding the lighter with incredible force, backhanding my face. My jaw pops. The lighter swings back under the pipe undulating back and forth, inhaling the curl as it rises from the tar, exactly the same as before he hit me, only now he's staring at me, hating me.

Martin was more than happy to let Spencer take over the conversation, for it finally granted him an opportunity to observe Mrs. Wheaton- who had just achieved the impossible. She had made him laugh. Truly, she was one of a kind. She always had been, he supposed, recalling again that day at the train station. While the polite conversation continued all around him, he allowed his gaze to meander downward and was pleased to admire the alluring feminine curves "Miss Foster" had developed over the past decade, including a lush, generous bosom, which would fare quite nicely in a lighter gown with a lower neckline, he thought. Dressed as she was at present, she reminded him of a pleasure yacht with her sails trimmed too tight, rendering her incapable of moving freely at the speed she was built for. He wondered suddenly how this aloof young widow would respond to a little wind in her sails and a skillful skipper like himself at her helm. Would he be able to bring the best out of her, like he did with the Orpheus? Yes, he thought with absolute confidence while he admired the grace of her gloved hand as she touched one finger to the corner of her mouth to dab at an errant drop of tea. He certainly could bring the best out of her, and also bring out that spark she kept hidden from the world. A marvelous, masculine satisfaction flowed through him at the thought of it.

Was it a convent you escaped from, Miss Turner?” He turned the boat with a deft pull on one oar. “Escaped?” Her heart knocked against her hidden purse. “I’m a governess, I told you. I’m not running away, from a convent or anywhere else. Why would you ask that?” He chuckled. “Because you’re staring at me as though you’ve never seen a man before.” Sophia’s cheeks burned. She was staring. Worse, now she found herself powerless to turn away. What with the murky shadows of the tavern and the confusion of the quay, not to mention her own discomposure, she hadn’t taken a good, clear look at his eyes until this moment. They defied her mental palette utterly. The pupils were ringed with a thin line of blue. Darker than Prussian, yet lighter than indigo. Perhaps matching that dearest of pigments-the one even her father’s generous allowance did not permit-ultramarine. Yet within that blue circumference shifted a changing sea of color-green one moment, gray the next…in the shadow of a half-blink, hinting at blue. He laughed again, and flinty sparks of amusement lit them. Yes, she was still staring. Forcing her gaze to the side, she saw their rowboat nearing the scraped hull of a ship. She cleared her throat and tasted brine. “Forgive me, Mr. Grayson. I’m only trying to make you out. I understood you to be the ship’s captain.” “Well,” he said, grasping a rope thrown down to him and securing it to the boat, “now you know I’m not.” “Might I have the pleasure, then, of knowing the captain’s name?” “Certainly,” he said, securing a second rope. “It’s Captain Grayson.” She heard the smirk in his voice, even before she swiveled her head to confirm it. Was he teasing her?

He still wasn't sure exactly when it happened...It wasn't as if a light suddenly blinked on; it was more like a sunrise, where the sky grows lighter and lighter almost imperceptibly before you realized it was morning. page 147

Things accumulated in purses. Unless they were deliberately unloaded and all contents examined for utility occasionally, one could find oneself transporting around in one’s daily life three lipstick cases each with just a crumb of lipstick left, an old eyebrow pencil sharpener without a blade, pieces of defunct watch, odd earrings, handkerchiefs (three crumpled, one uncrumpled), two grubby powder puffs, bent hairpins, patterns of ribbon to be matched, a cigarette lighter without fuel (and two with fuel), a spark plug, some papers of Bex and a sprinkling of loose white aspirin, eleven train tickets (the return half of which had not been given up), four tram tickets, cinema and theatre stubs, seven`pence three farthings in loose change and the manda-tory throat lozenge stuck to the lining. At least, those had been the extra contents of Phryne’s bag the last time Dot had turned it out. The

Wounded" The guy who put his hands on you Has got nothing to do with me And the bruises that you feel will heal And I hope you'll come around 'Cause we're missing you And you used to speak so easy Now you're afraid to talk to me It's like walking with the wounded Carrying that weight way too far The concrete pulled you down so hard Out there with the wounded Missing you Well I never claimed to understand what happens after dark But my fingers catch sparks at the thought of touching you When you're wounded Let me break it down 'till I force the issue We miss your face and you know I wish you Would come back down the the Dalva Bar You tell 'em, that's just my battle scar I want to kiss you And knock 'em down like we used to You're the marigold Till you're walking down shaking that ass again And then you walk on, baby walk on, you walk on, on and on You're an angel in the pit with her hands in the air And we're missing you Now it's fall, and your shoulders get tighter Nervous flicks on the lighter, boots Your pissed off poets, your women's groups And the friends with you, we should have known this fool Well I guess we missed the mark Still my fingers catch the sparks at the thought of them touching you Now you're wounded Let me break it down 'till I force the issue You never come around, and you know we miss you Well nobody took your pride away I said, that's something people say Back down the bully to the back of the bus 'Cause it's time for them to be scared of us 'Till you're yelling, how we living cause you got the ball Then you rock on baby, rock on, you rock on, on and on You're a summer time hottie with her socks in the air You're screaming I don't care baby I don't care You say you don't know You say you can't grow All I know is we're missing you You say you don't know You say you can't grow All I know is we're missing you Show up, show up wounded Show up, show up wounded

How do the people around you react to the sparks of life? Are they fire lighters who blow things up, or firefighters who calm things down?

1 It was early December. The streets of Milan glistened with Christmas decorations, with people coming and going carefree, carrying elegant shopping bags. It was past eight, and several minutes earlier I had closed behind me the door of Passerella, the modelling agency I ran. I had let my assistant, Giovanni, file the photos of the new faces we had initially chosen for Dante’s summer collection. He was an up-and-coming designer. The minute I walked down Monte Napoleone, one of the city’s most commercial streets, the chilly air forced me to wrap up well in my brand new light green coat. An original piece of cashmere, the five letters embossed on its lapel making it even more precious in that cold weather. My fingers contentedly groped for the word “Prada” before I stuck my hand into its warm pocket, while clutching my favourite handbag tight. A huge red ostrich Hermes where you could find cosmetics, scarves, and accessories, which I could use throughout the day, giving a different twist to my appearance. I wanted to walk a little bit to let off steam. My job may have been pleasant as it had to do with the world’s most beautiful creatures, men and women, but it wasn’t without its tensions. Models went to and fro, trade representatives looking for new faces, endless castings, phone calls, text messages, tailors, photographers, reports from my secretary and assistants—a rowdy disorder! I had already left the building where my job was, and I was going past another two entrances of nearby premises, when my leg caught on something. I instantly thought of my brand new Manolo Blahnik shoes. I’d only put them on for the second time, and they were now falling victim to the rough surface of a cardboard box, where a homeless man slept, at the entrance of a building. My eyes sparked as I checked if my high heels were damaged. On the face of it, they were intact. But that wasn’t enough for me. I found a lighter, and tried to check their red leather in the dim light. Why should the same thing happen over and over again every time I buy new shoes? I wondered and walked on, cursing. Why had that bloke chosen that specific spot to sleep, and why had I headed for his damn cardboard box! As I held my lighter, my angry gaze fell on the man who was covered with an impermeable piece of nylon, and carried on sleeping. He looked so vulnerable out in the cold that I didn’t dare rouse him from his sleep. After all, how could I hold him responsible in this state? I quickened my gait. Bella was waiting for me to start our night out with a drink and supper at Galleria Vittorio Emanuele, the imposing arcade with a dome made of glass, its ambience warm and romantic. Bella’s office was nearby, and that meeting place was convenient for both of us. That’s where we made up our minds about how to spend the night.I walked several metres down the road, but something made me stop short. I wanted to have a second look at that man. I retraced my steps. He was a young man who, despite his state, seemed so out of place. His unkempt hair and unshaven face didn’t let me see anything else but his profile, which reminded of an ancient Greek statue, with pronounced cheekbones and a chiselled nose. This second time, he must have sensed me over him. The man’s body budged, and he eyed me without making me out, dazzled by the lighter flame. As soon as I realised what I had done, I took to my heels. What had made me go back? Maybe, the sense of guilt I felt inside my warm Prada coat, maybe, the compassion I had to show as Christmas was just around the corner. All I knew was that a small bell jingled within, and I obeyed it. I walked faster, as if to escape from every thought. As I left, I stuck my hand in my bag, and got hold of my mobile. My secretary’s voice on the other end of the line sounded heavy and imposing. Giovanni wasn’t the embodiment of “macho” man, but he had all it takes to be the perfect male. Having chosen to quit modelling, he still looked gorgeous at the age of

Eyes of the Cat I wrote this little story for the schoolgirl who said my stories weren’t scary enough. Her comment was ‘Not bad’, and she gave me seven out of ten. Her eyes seemed flecked with gold when the sun was on them. And as the sun set over the mountains, drawing a deep red wound across the sky, there was more than gold in Kiran’s eyes. There was anger; for she had been cut to the quick by some remarks her teacher had made—the culmination of weeks of insults and taunts. Kiran was poorer than most of the girls in her class and could not afford the tuitions that had become almost obligatory if one was to pass and be promoted. ‘You’ll have to spend another year in the ninth,’ said Madam. ‘And if you don’t like that, you can find another school—a school where it won’t matter if your blouse is torn and your tunic is old and your shoes are falling apart.’ Madam had shown her large teeth in what was supposed to be a good-natured smile, and all the girls had tittered dutifully. Sycophancy had become part of the curriculum in Madam’s private academy for girls. On the way home in the gathering gloom, Kiran’s two companions commiserated with her. ‘She’s a mean old thing,’ said Aarti. ‘She doesn’t care for anyone but herself.’ ‘Her laugh reminds me of a donkey braying,’ said Sunita, who was more forthright. But Kiran wasn’t really listening. Her eyes were fixed on some point in the far distance, where the pines stood in silhouette against a night sky that was growing brighter every moment. The moon was rising, a full moon, a moon that meant something very special to Kiran, that made her blood tingle and her skin prickle and her hair glow and send out sparks. Her steps seemed to grow lighter, her limbs more sinewy as she moved gracefully, softly over the mountain path. Abruptly she left her companions at a fork in the road. ‘I’m taking the short cut through the forest,’ she said. Her friends were used to her sudden whims.

When my spark goes out I want you to kiss me with yours. Even if it’s dampened by the rain The thought that you’d attempt Would make romance turn Over in its grave. A spark that doesn’t require The use of a lighter. My skin this close to yours. My best friend, my weakness My worries gone in an instant

Most of our reactions are impulsive. When emotions spark, we quickly jump into feeding them and making them stronger, without realizing that this behavior just reinforces how we will feel in the future when a similar situation arises. Over and over again, the mind will see the present through the lens of the past, keeping us in a state of repetition and slowing down our ability to behave and think in new ways.

In the absense of light, look closer and you will see a spark!-Jacques fleury

In the absence of light, look closer and you will see a spark!

Bria, with her Necromancy kit and a lighter. “Hang on to it, Lexi,” she said, her hands moving fast. “Kieran’s a horrible twatwaffle. Everyone hates him. What a dick. Let’s kill him.” She rolled her thumb across the top of the lighter and it sparked to life. She put it to one of her incense sticks. “Kieran, blast that bitch.

Everything seems to be clicking all at once.  I’ve got so much energy it’s hard to sit still.  I want to get out and live.  It’s like every beat of my heart squeezes some kind of drug through my system.  All of a sudden life has potential.  I wonder what sparked the change?  All I know is my depression was like a fog around my head.  Now it’s gone and I’m so much lighter.  Iron Ass is right, it’s all mental!  Before, all my thoughts were negative and gloomy and now I’m letting go of that misery.  I’m thinking about the good in life, the beautiful things.  I was too caught in the darkness, convinced any good this world had to offer was nothing more than simple distractions providing momentary sanctuary, helping us forget.  Now I know negativity is the illusion.  The world is either as dark or as light as we make it.  I saw the world through eyes tinted with sorrow, so everything looked empty and meaningless.  Now the tint is gone, and I see there’s plenty of wonder to live for!

Original Fire I watch my daughter build a fire not from a match or cigarette lighter but from the original elements, two sticks, a length of sinew, friction. She has formed a cup of juniper shreds, and when she spins out a black ember and breathes it to life she transfers the radiant pebble into the nest and breathes again. Sparks fly from her lips. A dove of flame bursts from between her hands. She speaks to the spark until the words catch and burn and I think, here is my daughter who is innocent of all things yet from whose lips the terrible and merciful flame flies out, the truth, the fire.