Topical Guide 866
Mark Dorset
Metaphors and Similes: Fire
At Home with the Glynns, Chapter 42:
“All you have to do is think of all the metaphors we have derived from fire, and you could make a catalogue of all the meanings that people will take away from here when they make their way home.”
“Up in flames,” suggested Andy.
“The first spark of love,” offered Mr. Locke.
“The last dying embers,” said Andy.
“Rekindling an old flame,” said Rosetta.
The girls were snuggling against me, and I put my arms around them. In the crowd, it seemed to me, no one was likely to notice.
“Burning passion, flaming desire,” said Mr. Locke. He threw an arm around Rosetta, apparently unthinkingly.
Jerome Kern and Otto A. Harbach, “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes”:
when your heart’s on fire
You must realize, smoke gets in your eyes
Jim Morrison, John Densmore, Ray Manzarek, and Robby Krieger, “Light My Fire”:
Come on, baby, light my fire
Come on, baby, light my fire
Try to set the night on fire
Bruce Springsteen, “Fire”:
when we kiss, ooh
Fire
Herb ’n’ Lorna, Chapter 7, “In Which Herb and Lorna Ignite the Flame of Passion”:
The crowd inside the ballroom called for an encore of “Lake Serenity Serenade” and got it, and during the encore Herb and Lorna made love. It was, compared to what either had tasted so far, a feast. All the senses were invited, and there was no reason this time to leave the mind, the heart, or the imagination out of the fun; there was something for all of them — some rocking rowboat, rocking, rocking, beneath their tentative caresses, balsam scenting the air, moaning saxophones, Lorna leaning over Herb, running her hands over his chest, imagining modeling him in clay, tugging, pushing, kneading at his skin as if it were clay, pushing him backward and pulling his pants down, laughing, the rowboat rocking, rocking, rocking, whooops, rocking, grabbing for the gunwales, ouch, ooh, a splinter, thin sliver in the palm of Lorna’s hand, Herb’s slow, cautious extraction, drawing the sliver out so slowly that the sweet pain made Lorna run her hand between her legs, salty taste of Lorna’s blood, fluttering tickle of Herb’s tongue in Lorna’s palm, Lorna stretching out, her slow undressing, moonlight turning her to ivory, Herb imagining her in ivory, articulated here, here, here, here, wavelets lapping the sides of the boat, distant voices, laughter, a call, a shriek, stars twinkling in the night sky and bouncing in the water, Lorna’s foot dangling in the water, Lorna twisting around and settling onto Herb, wiggling to feel Herb in her, the long curved edges of the gunwales pressed into Herb’s calves, his feet dangling in the water, the wavelets tickling the soles of his feet, and at the moment of his coming the tickling becoming too much to bear, his laughing, laughing, laughing, their collapsing into the boat like fish landed after a struggle, flopping over the seats, bruising themselves on the edges and corners and oarlocks, and laughing, laughing, and subsiding, and lying with their arms around each other, just looking out over the water, the flickering water, silver with moonlight, but now, oddly, gold here and there, and even red, and —
Lorna lifted herself on one elbow and looked back toward the ballroom. It was in flames. They hurried into their clothes and began rowing back, sitting side by side, pulling at the oars, keeping their course by keeping their fire-formed shadows in the boat, and Lorna, who was so giddy with the promise of the future they had tasted that she couldn’t resist her happiness, even though she worried about the fire, turned toward Herb and asked, “You don’t think we did it, do you?”
See also:
Metaphors and Similes: Wandering the Streets of a Town TG 626, Clam Chowder TG 777, The River Meander, Meandering TG 783, River’s End, Life’s End TG 783, Developing a Photograph TG 831
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