It was all flames. There was a fire coming out of the window here, all at the top here ... And right when you go through the front door, where the bookshelf was, there was a bunch of fire there, too.

They just came out on fire. In the first half of the season we would kind of hang our head when we got down, but tonight we didn't hang our heads. We kept fighting. We kept our composure.

When you've got 12 fire departments, you've got a lot of buttons.

It was a pleasure to burn.
It was a special pleasure to see things eaten, to see things blackened and changed. With the brass nozzle in his fists, with this great python spitting its venomous kerosene upon the world, the blood pounded in his head, and his hands were the hands of some amazing conductor playing all the symphonies of blazing and burning to bring down the tatters and charcoal ruins of history. With his symbolic helmet numbered 451 on his stolid head, and his eyes all orange flame with the thought of what came next, he flicked the igniter and the house jumped up in a gorging fire that burned the evening sky red and yellow and black. He strode in a swarm of fireflies. He wanted above all, like the old joke, to shove a marshmallow on a stick in the furnace, while the flapping pigeon-winged books died on the porch and lawn of the house. While the books went up in sparkling whirls and blew away on a wind turned dark with burning.

Fire is bright and fire is clean.

All the fatt's in the fire.