Lump Of Coal Quotes

Miracles are like pimples, because once you start looking for them you find more than you ever dreamed you'd see.

It is a miracle if you can find true friends, and it is a miracle if you have enough food to eat, and it is a miracle if you get to spend your days and evenings doing whatever it is you like to do, and the holiday season - like all the other seasons - is a good time not only to tell stories of miracles, but to think about the miracles in your own life, and to be grateful for them, and that's the end of this particular story.

Inside every lump of coal there's a diamond waiting to get out.

All these things are miracles. It is a miracle if you can find true friends, and it is a miracle if you have enough food to eat, and it is a miracle if you get to spend your days and evenings doing whatever it is you like to do.

The holiday season is a time for storytelling, and whether you are hearing the story of a candelabra staying lit for more than a week, or a baby born in a barn without proper medical supervision, these stories often feature miracles. Miracles are like pimples, because once you start looking for them you find more than you ever dreamed you'd see, and this holiday story features any number of miracles, depending on your point of view.

Perhaps I should just bury myself and become a diamond after thousands of years of intense pressure

Like many people who dress in black, the lump of coal was interested in becoming an artist.

I was seriously considering giving both Ellie and Braden a lump of coal for their Christmas present this year as a thank-you for turning Joss into a normal person who annoyed her friends with her terrible matchmaking skills.

Diamonds are only lumps of coal that stuck at it no matter how much heat or pressure they faced.

The real Santa Claus is at the mall.

Old lady Patterson is a real tightwad.” Raising his voice so it would carry, the man continued, “If she stuck a lump of coal up her ass, within a week she’d shit out a diamond.

Writing is like a lump of coal. Put it under enough pressure and polish it enough and you might just end up with a diamond. Otherwise, you can burn it to keep warm.

He looked at the little maiden, and she looked at him; and he felt that he was melting away, but he still managed to keep himself erect, shouldering his gun bravely. A door was suddenly opened, the draught caught the little dancer and she fluttered like a sylph, straight into the fire, to the soldier, blazed up and was gone! By this time the soldier was reduced to a mere lump, and when the maid took away the ashes next morning she found him, in the shape of a small tin heart. All that was left of the dancer was her spangle, and that was burnt as black as a coal.

When people are cruel it's often said that they have no heart, only a cold space or lump of ice in their chest. This was never true of Avalon. She had no heart, everyone knew, but there was nothing cold about her. In her chest burned an enormous coal, white-hot, brighter than the North Star. North knew the truth about Avalon: she was made of fire, and she would burn them all.

It wasn’t his fault Jamison was wound so tight that a lump of coal up his ass would likely result in diamonds inside of a week.

It is a miracle if you can find true friends, and it is a miracle if you have enough to eat, and it is a miracle if you get to spend your days and evenings doing whatever it is you like to do... Lemony Snicket, "The Lump of Coal

Remember, baby, don’t never let a man mine you for your riches. Don’t let him take a pickax to that treasure in your soul. Remember, they can’t get it until you give it to them. They might lie and try to trick you out of it, baby, and they’ll try. They might lay a hand on you, or worse, they might break your spirit, but the only way they can get it is to convince you it’s not yours to start with. To convince you there’s nothing there but a lump of coal.

It is a miracle if we can find true friends, and it is a miracle if you have enough food to eat, and it is a miracle if you get to spend your days and evenings doing whatever it is you like to do... Lemony Snicket, The Lump of Coal

Note for Americans and other city-dwelling life-forms: the rural British, having eschewed central heating as being far too complicated and in any case weakening moral fiber, prefer a system of piling small pieces of wood and lumps of coal, topped by large, wet logs, possibly made of asbestos, into small, smoldering heaps, known as “There’s nothing like a roaring open fire is there?” Since none of these ingredients are naturally inclined to burn, underneath all this they apply a small, rectangular, waxy white lump, which burns cheerfully until the weight of the fire puts it out. These little white blocks are called firelighters. No one knows why.

Every atom in me has a long history during which it may have been part of many living things, including human beings, and during which it may also have spent long periods as part of the sea, or in a lump of coal, or in a rock, or as a portion of the wind blowing upon us.

Without thought he repeated some words which a boy had once chalked on the blackboard between lessons: 'A lump of coal is better than nothing. Nothing is better than God. Therefore a lump of coal is better than God'. And then he traced his own name with his finger on the cracked and broken floor.

We're all dealt our lumps of coal. What you do with it can turn beautiful.

The world, the people I work for”—he gestured to nothing in particular all around him—“it’s all turned my heart into a small lump of black coal.

A diamond’s just a lump of coal that knows how to deal with pressure.

It doesn’t matter if you are a diamond or a lump of coal if you remain buried underground.

Trying to purify something that is fundamentally bad would be as pointless as trying to bleach a lump of coal.

Just as a lump of coal, under pressure, could become a diamond bit, Theo had learned to turn his anger into something he could use.

Back in Brooklyn, the wind was sharp and the streets were slick and Kat just really wished her Uncle Eddie believed in leaving a key under the mat instead of maintaining his strict stance that anyone who could not break into his Brooklyn brownstone had absolutely no business staying there without him. “Is there a problem, Kitty Kat?” a voice said from over Kat’s shoulder. Kat’s fingers were frozen and her breath fogged, and she’d had a far too upbeat rendition of “White Christmas” stuck in her head on a perpetual loop for the past eight hours. So, yes, there was a problem. But Kat would never, ever admit it. “I’m fine, Gabrielle,” she told her cousin. “Really?” Gab asked. “Because if you can’t handle Uncle Eddie’s lock then someone is going to get a lump of coal in her stocking again this Christmas.” “It wasn’t coal,” Kat shot back. “It was a very rare mineral from a condemned mine in South Africa, and it was a very thoughtful gift.

After having imposed itself on us like the egomaniac it is, clamouring about its own needs, foisting upon us its own sordid and perilous desires, the body's final trick is simply to absent itself. Just when you need it, just when you could use an arm or a leg, suddenly the body has other things to do. It falters, it buckles under you; it melts away as if made of snow, leaving nothing much. Two lumps of coal, an old hat, a grin made of pebbles. The bones dry sticks, easily broken.

Businesses must view people not as resources but as sources.16 A resource is like a lump of coal; you use it and it’s gone. A source is like the sun—virtually inexhaustible and continually generating energy, light, and warmth. There is no more powerful source of creative energy in the world than a turned-on, empowered human being. A conscious business energizes and empowers people and engages their best contribution in service of its noble higher purposes. By doing so, a business has a profoundly positive net impact on the world. We

Ever since I became an American, people have told me that America is about leaving your past behind. I’ve never understood that. You can no more leave behind your past than you can leave behind your skin. The compulsion to delve into the past, to speak for the dead, to recover their stories: that’s part of who Evan was, and why I loved him. Just the same, my grandfather is part of who I am, and what he did, he did in the name of my mother and me and my children. I am responsible for his sins, in the same way that I take pride in inheriting the tradition of a great people, a people who, in my grandfather’s time, committed great evil. In an extraordinary time, he faced extraordinary choices, and maybe some would say this means that we cannot judge him. But how can we really judge anyone except in the most extraordinary of circumstances? It’s easy to be civilized and display a patina of orderliness in calm times, but your true character only emerges in darkness and under great pressure: is it a diamond or merely a lump of the blackest coal? Yet, my grandfather was not a monster. He was simply a man of ordinary moral courage whose capacity for great evil was revealed to his and my lasting shame. Labeling someone a monster implies that he is from another world, one which has nothing to do with us. It cuts off the bonds of affection and fear, assures us of our own superiority, but there’s nothing learned, nothing gained. It’s simple, but it’s cowardly. I know now that only by empathizing with a man like my grandfather can we understand the depth of the suffering he caused. There are no monsters. The monster is us.

A white handkerchief in the shade may be objectively darker than a lump of coal in the sunshine. We rarely confuse the one with the other because the coal will on the whole be the blackest patch in our field of vision, the handkerchief the whitest, and it is relative brightness that matters and that we are aware of.

I tend to see diamonds in lumps of coal— gold in nickel— I’m an alchemist. Luring in these fantastical characters who would consistently undo me.

Maybe he was the anti-Santa, of the South Pole, and he was going to show them where the elves made lumps of coal for Anti-Christmas.

I suppose we are all lumps of coal destined for one furnace or another.

Paul said to his Ephesian readers, discouraged because of his imprisonment, “My suffering is for your glory.” Why? Because that is how it works. Suffering and glory are closely linked. Suffering glorifies God to the universe and eventually even achieves a glory for us. And do you know why suffering and glory are so tied to each other? It is because of Jesus. Philippians 2 tells us Jesus laid aside his glory. Why? Charles Wesley’s famous Christmas carol tells you. Mild he lays his glory by; born that men no more may die; Born to raise the sons of earth. Born to give them second birth. Jesus lost all his glory so that we could be clothed in it. He was shut out so we could get access. He was bound, nailed, so that we could be free. He was cast out so we could approach. And Jesus took away the only kind of suffering that can really destroy you: that is being cast away from God. He took that so that now all suffering that comes into your life will only make you great. A lump of coal under pressure becomes a diamond. And the suffering of a person in Christ only turns you into somebody gorgeous. Jesus Christ suffered, not so that we would never suffer but so that when we suffer we would be like him. His suffering led to glory. And you can see it in Paul. Paul is happy to be in prison because “my sufferings are for your glory,” he says. He is like Jesus now. Because that is how Jesus did it. And if you know that that glory is coming, you can handle suffering, too.

In an extraordinary time, he faced extraordinary choices, and maybe some would say this means that we cannot judge him. But how can we really judge anyone except in the most extraordinary of circumstances? It’s easy to be civilized and display a patina of orderliness in calm times, but your true character only emerges in darkness and under great pressure: is it a diamond or merely a lump of the blackest coal? Yet, my grandfather was not a monster. He was simply a man of ordinary moral courage whose capacity for great evil was revealed to his and my lasting shame. Labeling someone a monster implies that he is from another world, one which has nothing to do with us. It cuts off the bonds of affection and fear, assures us of our own superiority, but there’s nothing learned, nothing gained. It’s simple, but it’s cowardly. I know now that only by empathizing with a man like my grandfather can we understand the depth of the suffering he caused. There are no monsters. The monster is us.

Some people have views of God that are so broad and flexible that it is inevitable that they will find God wherever they look for him. One hears it said that 'God is the ultimate' or 'God is our better nature' or 'God is the universe.' Of course, like any other word, the word 'God' can be given any meaning we like. If you want to say that 'God is energy,' then you can find God in a lump of coal.

Some people have views of God that are so broad and flexible that it is inevitable that they will find God wherever they look for him. One hears it said that ‘God is the ultimate’ or ‘God is our better nature’ or ‘God is the universe.’ Of course, like any other word, the word ‘God’ can be given any meaning we like. If you want to say that ‘God is energy,’ then you can find God in a lump of coal.

Why, there’d be soldiers riding guard in the back of potato lorries going to the army’s mess hall—children would follow them, hoping potatoes would fall off into the street. Soldiers would look straight ahead, grim-like, and then flick potatoes off the pile—on purpose. “They did the same thing with oranges. Same with lumps of coal—my, those were precious when we didn’t have no fuel left. There was many such incidents. Just ask Mrs. Godfray about her boy. He had the pneumonia and she was worried half to death because she couldn’t keep him warm nor give him good food to eat. One day there’s a knock on her door and when she opens up, she sees an orderly from the German hospital on the step. Without a peep, he hands her a vial of that sulfonamide, tips his cap, and walks away. He had stolen it from their dispensary for her. They caught him later, trying to steal some again, and they sent him off to prison in Germany—maybe hung him. We’d not be knowing which.

(Many religions, from Judaism to Zoroastrianism, use light and fire as symbols for the presence of God, perhaps because light, like God, cannot be seen but permits us to see everything there is, perhaps because fire liberates the energy hidden in a log of wood or a lump of coal just as God liberates the potential energy to do good things that is hidden in every human being, just as God will be the fire that burns within Moses, enabling him to do the great things he will go on to do, but not consuming him in the process.)

The Nobel Prize-winning physicist (and atheist) Steven Weinberg made the point as well as anybody, in Dreams of a Final Theory:   Some people have views of God that are so broad and flexible that it is inevitable that they will find God wherever they look for him. One hears it said that ‘God is the ultimate’ or ‘God is our better nature’ or ‘God is the universe.’ Of course, like any other word, the word ‘God’ can be given any meaning we like. If you want to say that ‘God is energy,’ then you can find God in a lump of coal.

experience in profounder laws. The whole character and fortune of the individual are affected by the least inequalities in the culture of the understanding; for example, in the perception of differences. Therefore is Space, and therefore Time, that man may know that things are not huddled and lumped, but sundered and individual. A bell and a plough have each their use, and neither can do the office of the other. Water is good to drink, coal to burn, wool to wear; but wool cannot be drunk, nor water spun, nor coal eaten. The wise man shows his wisdom in separation, in gradation, and his scale of creatures and of merits is as wide as nature. The foolish have no range in their

I come back, always, to the metaphoric response of the Kabbalah—the mystical branch of Judaism that inspired Leonard Cohen’s broken “Hallelujah.” That, in the beginning, all of creation was a vessel filled with divine light. That it broke apart, and now the shards of holiness are strewn all around us. Sometimes it’s too dark to see them, sometimes we’re too distracted by pain or conflict. But our task is simple—to bend down, dig them out, pick them up. And in so doing, to perceive that light can emerge from darkness, death gives way to rebirth, the soul descends to this riven world for the sake of learning how to ascend. And to realize that we all notice different shards; I might see a lump of coal, but you spot the gold glimmering beneath.

Although she never went to the synagogue...Grandma [Lausch], all the same, burned a candle on the anniversary of Mr. Lausch's death, threw a lump of dough on the coals when she was baking, a kind of offering, had incantations over baby teeth and stunts against the evil eye. It was kitchen religion and had nothing to do with the G-d of the Creation who turned back the waters and exploded Gomorrah, but it was on the side of religion at that.

After having imposed itself on us like the egomaniac it is, clamouring about its own needs, foisting upon us its own sordid and perilous desires, the body’s final trick is simply to absent itself. Just when you need it, just when you could use an arm or a leg, suddenly the body has other things to do. It falters, it buckles under you; it melts away as if made of snow, leaving nothing much. Two lumps of coal, an old hat, a grin made of pebbles. The bones dry sticks, easily broken.

In the 1980s, psychologists Susan Fiske and Shelly Taylor were looking for a way to describe what research was showing to be a ubiquitous tendency among humans: to think only as much as they feel they need to, and no more. And so the metaphor of the cognitive miser was born, with each of us an Ebenezer Scrooge—except instead of sitting on piles of money and refusing to pay for an extra lump of coal to keep the house warm, we sit on reserves of mental energy and processing capacity, unwilling to spend much of it unless we really have to. We rely on simple, efficient thought processes to get the job done—not so much out of laziness (though there is some of that, too), but out of necessity. There is just too much going on, too much to notice, understand, and act on, for us to give every individual and every occurrence our undivided, unbiased attention. So not only are you innately hard to understand, but the people observing you are hoarding their attention.

And again it snowed, and again the sun came out. In the mornings on the way to the station Franklin counted the new snowmen that had sprung up mysteriously overnight or the old ones that had been stricken with disease and lay cracked apart--a head here, a broken body and three lumps of coal there--and one day he looked up from a piece of snow-colored rice paper and knew he was done. It was as simple as that: you bent over your work night after night, and one day you were done. Snow still lay in dirty streaks on the ground but clusters of yellow-green flowers hung from the sugar maples.

When we came back to Paris it was clear and cold and lovely. The city had accommodated itself to winter, there was good wood for sale at the wood and coal place across our street, and there were braziers outside of many of the good cafés so that you could keep warm on the terraces. Our own apartment was warm and cheerful. We burned boulets which were molded, egg-shaped lumps of coal dust, on the wood fire, and on the streets the winter light was beautiful. Now you were accustomed to see the bare trees against the sky and you walked on the fresh-washed gravel paths through the Luxembourg gardens in the clear sharp wind. The trees were beautiful without their leaves when you were reconciled to them, and the winter winds blew across the surfaces of the ponds and the fountains were blowing in the bright light. All the distances were short now since we had been in the mountains. Because of the change in altitude I did not notice the grade of the hills except with pleasure, and the climb up to the top floor of the hotel where I worked, in a room that looked across all the roofs and the chimneys of the high hill of the quarter, was a pleasure. The fireplace drew well in the room and it was warm and pleasant to work.

The whole character and fortune of the individual are affected by the least inequalities in the culture of the understanding; for example, in the perception of differences. Therefore is Space, and therefore Time, that man may know that things are not huddled and lumped, but sundered and individual. A bell and a plough have each their use, and neither can do the office of the other. Water is good to drink, coal to burn, wool to wear; but wool cannot be drunk, nor water spun, nor coal eaten. The wise man shows his wisdom in separation, in gradation, and his scale of creatures and of merits is as wide as nature. The foolish have no range in their scale, but suppose every man is as every other man. What is not good they call the worst, and what is not hateful, they call the best.

Also enraged at myself. Or not at myself - at this bad turn my body has done me. After having imposed itself on us like the egomaniac it is, clamouring about its own needs, foisting upon us its own sordid and perilous desires, the body's final trick is simply to absent itself. Just when you need it, just when you could use an arm or a leg, suddenly the body has other things to do. It falters, it buckles under you; it melts away as if made of snow, leaving nothing much. Two lumps of coal, an old hat, a grin made of pebbles. The bones dry sticks, easily broken. It's an affront, all of that. Weak knees, arthritic knuckles, varicose veins, infirmities, indignities - they aren't ours, we never wanted or claimed them. Inside our heads we carry ourselves perfected - ourselves at the best age, and in the best light as well: never caught awkwardly, one leg out of a car, one still in, or picking our teeth, or slouching, or scratching our noses or bums. If naked, seen gracefully reclining through a gauzy mist, which is where movie stars come in: they assume such poses for us. They are our younger selves as they recede from us, glow, turn mythical.

Non-derivative and concrete individuals are always self-individuating individuals, and this activity of self-individuation (or self-relating negativity) is manifest immediately in the activity of form of living beings. Indeed, this is why Hegel begins the chapter on 'Life' with a discussion of 'the living individual.' Individuality is immediately manifest in the living being, or the living being immediately posits itself as an individual, dividing itself from what it is not, because it matters to the living being that it is itself and not something else: first, that it is itself and not a piece of inert, dead matter; second, that is it itself and not substitutable for another member of the same species; third, that it is itself and not a member of another species. Only beings that can be for themselves can point things out for them as an individual this, and so for Hegel, anything that is individual only on account of being pointed out by something outside itself is not an individual in the strict sense. Rocks, clouds, lumps of coal, and drops of water are thus mere particulars rather than individuals. In the context of the ontological proof, then, the being that is identical with the Concept is its own activity, and this activity posits itself as self-determining individuality.

11. There Is No Education Like Adversity In 1941, as Britain was in the darkest days of World War Two, Churchill told a generation of young people that ‘these are great days - the greatest days our country has ever lived.’ But why was Churchill telling them that those bleak, uncertain, life-threatening and freedom-challenging days were also the best days of their lives? He knew that it’s when times are tough, when the conditions are at their worst, that we learn what we are truly capable of. There are few greater feelings than finding out you can achieve more, and endure more, than you had previously imagined, and it’s only when we are tested that we realize just how brightly we can shine. It’s a cliché, but it’s true: diamonds are formed under pressure. And without the pressure, they simply remain lumps of coal. The greatest trick in life is to learn to see adversity as your friend, your teacher and your guide. Storms come to make us stronger. No one ever achieves their dream without first stumbling over a few obstacles along the way. Experience teaches you to understand that those obstacles are actually a really good indication that you are on the right road. Trust me: if you find a road without any obstacles, I can promise you it doesn’t lead anywhere worthwhile. So, embrace the adversity, embrace the obstacles, and get ready for success. Today is the start of the greatest days of your life…

I’m doing you a favor,” replied the colonel with a smile of his own. “Just remember what Patton said: Pressure makes diamonds.” “Well, yeah,” said the major in amusement. “If you’re a lump of coal. If you’re a human being, that same pressure turns you into splatter. Like a bug on a windshield.

We also ate well in the kitchen, and I found that I had inherited my father's palate and appreciation of good food. Our cuisine at home always been rather basic, even in the days when we had a cook, and I became fascinated with the process of creating such wonderful flavors. "Show me how you made that parsley sauce, those meringues, that oyster stew," I'd say to Mrs Robbins, the cook. And if she had a minute to spare, she would show me. After a while, seeing my willingness as well as my obvious aptitude for cooking, she suggested to Mrs Tilley that her old legs were not up to standing for hours any more and that she needed an assistant cook. And she requested me. Mrs Tilley agreed, but only if she didn't have to pay me more money and I should still be available to do my party piece whenever she entertained. And so I went to work in the kitchen. Mrs Robbins found me a willing pupil. After lugging coal scuttles up all those stairs, it felt like heaven to be standing at a table preparing food. We had a scullery maid who did all the most menial of jobs, like chopping the onions and peeling the potatoes, but I had to do the most basic of tasks- mashing the potatoes with lots of butter and cream until there wasn't a single lump, basting the roast so that the fat was evenly crisp. I didn't mind. I loved being amongst the rich aromas. I loved the look of a well-baked pie. The satisfaction when Mrs Robbins nodded with approval at something I had prepared. And of course I loved the taste of what I had created. Now when I went home to Daddy and Louisa, I could say, "I roasted that pheasant. I made that apple tart." And it gave me a great rush of satisfaction to say the words. "You've a good feel of it, I'll say that for you," Mrs Robbins told me, and after a while she even sought my opinion. "Does this casserole need a touch more salt, do you think? Or maybe some thyme?" The part I loved the best was the baking. She showed me how to make pastry, meringues that were light as air, all sorts of delicate biscuits and rich cakes.

In the air the birds are clever, acrobatic, but when they land on the road they turn to lumps of coal, then lift together when a person or vehicle draws near. She watches the flight eddies, the trading of partners, the way the patterns form, dissolve and reconfigure like one machine in motion-yet each bird with its own small, muscled heart...at the same time that she carries a knowledge that she's been seeing these birds year after year (and always here) and that the medium they pass through is not just space but also time.

What do we learn from the obstacles?” Master’s eyes were more than ever lumps of coal, thought Tom. “We learn that the obstacles are the path. That the road is the journey.

The torn page said I needed charcoal. I had one lump of coal.

«Inside every lump of coal there’s a diamond waiting to get out, right?»

So please, refuse to let the wounded people extinguish you. Refuse to be tamed. Refuse to flicker down into a lump of meager, burnt-out coal because somebody else is not tending to your flame.

... love being like a lump of coal: hot, it burns you; cold, it makes you dirty.

The plentiful black stones making possible all this cooking, heating, and bathing were lumps of coal, a source of energy that had been used throughout China for at least a thousand years. Yet in Marco’s day, the notion of burning coal rather than wood for heat was practically unheard of in Europe. The existence of this black, dusty, carbon-rich substance had been noted at infrequent intervals throughout Western history, beginning with the Roman occupation of Britain and continuing to Marco’s time, but not until the eighteenth century did coal become a common source of energy in European countries.

Remember, a diamond begins as a lump of coal, and a pearl starts as a tiny grain of sand. Even dark matter knows how to receive love and metamorphose into something beautiful.

In one case, we received a black lump of coal. Only after we took an X-ray could we understand that the same lump of coal was actually two different people. An older woman and a younger woman who were hugging. Their condition was such that they hugged while they were being burned, and around them was a metal wire that tied them together. We know that they were burned alive because they have soot in their tracheas.

When Hahn and Strassman conducted their experiment, they launched a neutron into an atom of uranium, a metal that was made up of the largest and heaviest atoms known at the time. Because a neutron has no electrical charge, it can slip through the powerful wall of electrons that surrounds every atom. This extra neutron is absorbed into the already bloated uranium nucleus, upsetting the careful balance of forces that holds the atom together. And in a flash the whole atom fractures. Its protons and electrons and neutrons rearrange themselves into different elements. The reaction also releases stray neutrons, which fly off on their own. But the most significant by-product of this collision is energy. Lots of it… Just how much energy comes from a nuclear reaction? About seventy million times more energy than from a chemical reaction. So if, for example, you fissioned one kilogram of uranium, it would make the same size explosion as 20,000 tons of TNT. One little chunk of uranium has more potential explosive energy than a pile of TNT stacked ten stories high. If fission could work on a large enough scale (instead of just one atom at a time), mankind stood to gain more than merely the ability to make explosions. In fact, fission promised to reveal some of the deepest mysteries of the universe. The secret behind fission’s awesome power lies in the type of reaction that is taking place. For practically all of human history, the most energetic reactions that humans were aware of were chemical reactions. Fire is a good example. If you ignite a lump of coal and make sure there is enough oxygen around, the result is fire (energy) and smoke. On a molecular level, the heat from the flame disrupts the electrons in the coal, causing each carbon atom to bond with two atoms of oxygen. The result is a new molecule made from the old atoms: CO2. We put in carbon and oxygen, and we get out carbon and oxygen, though in slightly different arrangements. But in a nuclear reaction, such as fission, the original atom of uranium disappears. It actually becomes two new atoms. Instead of changing merely the arrangement of the atoms, fission changes their very identity. In fission, scientists had finally discovered the philosopher’s stone that had captivated the minds of medieval alchemists. With fission, we could finally turn lead into gold.

Rather than elucidate further, Sophie peered into the teapot. “Empty. May you lot all find a lump of coal among your presents today.” Sindal passed her his teacup. “Our sister lives to castigate us,” St. Just said, spreading a liberal portion of butter on his toast. “We mustn’t deprive her of her few pleasures.” “And

How could the vacuum, which has nothing in it, have any energy at all? The answer comes from another equation: Einstein's famous E=mc^2. This simple formula relates mass and energy: the mass of an object is equivalent to a certain amount of energy. (In fact, particle physics don't measure the mass of the electron, say, in kilograms or pounds or any of the usual units of mass or weight. They say that the electron's rest mass is .511 MeV [million electron volts]- a lump of energy.) The fluctuation in the energy in the vacuum is the same thing as a fluctuation in the amount of mass. Particles are constantly winking in and out of existence, like tiny Cheshire cats. The vacuum is never truly empty. Instead, it is seething with these virtual particles; at every point in space, an infinite number are happily popping up and disappearing. This is the zero-point energy, an infinity in the formulas of quantum theory. Interpreted strictly, the zero-point energy is limitless. According to the equations of quantum mechanics, more power than is stored in all the coal mines, oil fields, and nuclear weapons in the world is sitting in the space inside your toaster.

tried both, and without much success on either count. It’s more to do with blood, sweat, and tears, plus a hundred other emotionally charged components, all required to put aside their differences and come together at exactly the right moment. Imagine squeezing a lump of coal until it transmutes into a diamond. The reality is, it’s a complicated

His hands slowly folded into fists, taking on the shape of knobby lumps of coal. His body stiffened, and every pore seemed to ooze with indignation. However, to his credit, he answered with a remarkably restrained, “How so?

The reality is, what writers write and the way they live can be as different as a lump of coal and a diamond. The written life is shined to a deceptive gloss.

When I first came across Tolle, I was astounded to see how many times a day I 'beat myself up' and/or ran over a conversation in my head and criticised myself and/or wished I had done something differently etc. First you notice yourself doing it and then you drop it. Someone asks Tolle in the book – but how do you just drop something that is running round in your head? "How would you drop a hot lump of coal?" he replies. Let's start just dropping it!

My First Kill ‘Twas Burton showed me where it was and told me not to wait, Whilst Walter moved the dust bin out and shut the garden gate; Then master said, “Now, here’s your chance; come on, my flop-eared son” (I must admit, until he spoke, I felt inclined to run); Maria whacked it with her broom, and then sat down and cried, And Cookie screamed and frightened it before she ran inside; The cat said, “After you, old chap; he’s rather big for me, So I shan’t interfere at all,” and scrambled up a tree; Next someone threw a lump of coal and made the beast turn round; Then—I went in and finished it and flung it on the ground. So that is how I caught the rate entirely on my own, And Master’s pleased as pleased can be; he’s gone to fetch a bone.

I swear the woman made her money by shoving lumps of coal up her tight ass and shitting out diamonds.

There was the ugliness of the preacher, the hardness of this land, the shame weighing down my shoulders. It was always there inside. The disgrace had fixed itself to my soul like it had life, the rawness, black and heavy like a lump of Kentucky coal that would find its dirty way into our home.

That set off the home security system—a chorus of deep barks from Rex and Sherlock, the two Rhodesian-mastiffs Tracy inherited when she and Dan married. Roger squirmed free and shot from her arms. A thud, followed by a second thud, came from upstairs. The dogs had been on the bed—against Tracy’s rules. Nails clicked on the hardwood floor as the two dogs rushed to the landing at the top of the steps. They looked down at Tracy, tails wagging, but tentative. “You know you’re not supposed to be on the bed,” she said. Rex shifted his eyes back to the master bedroom. An admission of guilt. Sherlock, apparently deciding to seek forgiveness, lumbered his 140 pounds down the steps to greet her. “Good boy,” she said. “You’re in the will. Rex, you get a lump of coal.” Rex whined and trudged back into the bedroom. The

when people's needs are urgent it's not hard to convince them that instead of fighting for social equality it makes more sense to show loyalty to a political party in return for a daily loaf of bread and a few lumps of coal.

brother-in-law. “Oh, God damn it, Angus, if it weren’t for my sister, I’d fire you,” the brother-in-law said once, and my grandfather said, “John, if it weren’t for your sister, I wouldn’t have to work.” On New Year’s Eve—or, rather, in the first hours of the new year—these Scotsmen in Ohio always went around to one another’s houses, following the Highland custom of first-footing. The first foot to cross a threshold in a new year will bring untold beneficence if it is an acceptable foot. It has to be the foot of a dark-haired person. If the first-footing is done by a fair-haired person, that is all right as long as a lump of coal or some other dark object is thrown across the threshold first. My father remembers all this from his youth, but he raised his own family in Princeton, New Jersey, and there were no first-footings there.

All these things are miracles. It is a miracle if you can find true friends, and it is a miracle if you have enough food to eat, and it is miracle if you get to spend your days and evenings doing whatever it is you like to do, and the holiday season -- like all other seasons -- is a good time not only to tell stories of miracles, but to think about the miracles in your own life, and to be grateful for them, and that's the end of this particular story.

A moment of relief as I spot my old friend, the gray rabbit from the arena. My dove in the coal mine, who warned of danger, who led me from the maze. Has it come to save me once again? Help me. Can you help me? The green eyes stare unblinking from the tank. It presses into the glass. Why does it tremble so? From the shadows, something strikes. A six-foot snake swallows up my ally. A lump in the sinewy body.

They rose when she entered— a small, fat woman in black, with a thin gold chain descending to her waist and vanishing into her belt, leaning on an ebony cane with a tarnished gold head. Her skeleton was small and spare; perhaps that was why what would have been merely plumpness in another was obesity in her. She looked bloated, like a body long submerged in motionless water, and of that pallid hue. Her eyes, lost in the fatty ridges of her face, looked like two small pieces of coal pressed into a lump of dough as they moved from one face to another while the visitors stated their errand.

You were your daddy’s treasure from the time you were born until he died. He used to say there were rubies buried deep inside of you. Remember, baby, don’t never let a man mine you for your riches. Don’t let him take a pickax to that treasure in your soul. Remember, they can’t get it until you give it to them. They might lie and try to trick you out of it, baby, and they’ll try. They might lay a hand on you, or worse, they might break your spirit, but the only way they can get it is to convince you it’s not yours to start with. To convince you there’s nothing there but a lump of coal. ==========

My head swirled, everything pale green—green, the color of my childhood. Everything was painted that color in those days: offices, schools, hospitals, even our tiny little state-owned apartment. Imagine it, the whole country green. I don’t think I knew what color was until I got to London and saw all the girls in their pretty summer dresses: pinks, reds, yellows, oranges, and, goodness me, the gardens and the flowers. My guts churned. The old smells returned—coal and cooking oil, sweat, shit leaking from overflowing latrines. My mouth tasted like iron, a memory, blood. I made it to the sink just in time, vomiting lumps, pale puke green.

It was simply that she shone like a flame, a flawless diamond breathing living fire among so many dead lumps of coal.

I used a lump of coal to scratch a notice on the wall by the entrance: "Pissing and shitting strictly forbidden. Offenders will be punished." It had no effect at all. Later, I added a new notice: "Beware, haunted house." That put a stop to it.

answered, pulling on his overcoat. All the loneliness of the evening seemed to descend upon her at once then and she said with the suggestion of a whine in her voice, ‘Why don’t you take me with you some Saturday?’ ‘You?’ he said. ‘Take you? D’you think you’re fit to take anywhere? Look at yersen! An’ when I think of you as you used to be!’ She looked away. The abuse had little sting now. She could think of him too, as he used to be; but she did not do that too often now, for such memories had the power of evoking a misery which was stronger than the inertia that, over the years, had become her only defence. ‘What time will you be back?’ ‘Expect me when you see me,’ he said at the door. ‘Is’ll want a bite o’ supper, I expect.’ Expect him at whatever time his tipsy legs brought him home, she thought. If he lost he would drink to console himself. If he won he would drink to celebrate. Either way there was nothing in it for her but yet more ill temper, yet further abuse. She got up a few minutes after he had gone and went to the back door to look out. It was snowing again and the clean, gentle fall softened the stark and ugly outlines of the decaying outhouses on the patch of land behind the house and gently obliterated Scurridge’s footprints where they led away from the door, down the slope to the wood, through which ran a path to the main road, a mile distant. She shivered as the cold air touched her, and returned indoors, beginning, despite herself, to remember. Once the sheds had been sound and strong and housed poultry. The garden had flourished too, supplying them with sufficient vegetables for their own needs and some left to sell. Now it was overgrown with rampant grass and dock. And the house itself – they had bought it for a song because it was old and really too big for one woman to manage; but it too had been strong and sound and it had looked well under regular coats of paint and with the walls pointed and the windows properly hung. In the early days, seeing it all begin to slip from her grasp, she had tried to keep it going herself. But it was a thankless, hopeless struggle without support from Scurridge: a struggle which had beaten her in the end, driving her first into frustration and then finally apathy. Now everything was mouldering and dilapidated and its gradual decay was like a symbol of her own decline from the hopeful young wife and mother into the tired old woman she was now. Listlessly she washed up and put away the teapots. Then she took the coal-bucket from the hearth and went down into the dripping, dungeon-like darkness of the huge cellar. There she filled the bucket and lugged it back up the steps. Mending the fire, piling it high with the wet gleaming lumps of coal, she drew some comfort from the fact that this at least, with Scurridge’s miner’s allocation, was one thing of which they were never short. This job done, she switched on the battery-fed wireless set and stretched out her feet in their torn canvas shoes to the blaze. They were broadcasting a programme of old-time dance music: the Lancers, the Barn Dance, the Veleta. You are my honey-honey-suckle, I am the bee… Both she and

F*cking perfect. That's what Persephone was. Dazzling, radiant - a f*cking goddess among mortals. She was the candle amid endless darkness. A diamond gleaming among lumps of coal. NO one was worth of her, not even to gaze upon her beauty. Not even me.

It’s the world that’s pushing the narrative,” he says. “Society tells us we’re not pretty enough, or we’re too fat, or that we need the latest sunglasses or smartphone or a flashy new car. We’re constantly told we’re not good enough as we are. And why? So we buy more shit. Humans are lumps of coal being shoved into the furnace that is capitalism.

You have the personality of a lump of coal. You're the gift people are given when they're being punished.