Quotes from Ray Bradbury

He had written a short story once called "The Pedestrian," about a man who is incarcerated by the police after he is stopped simply for walking.

Don't see so much, Chris, your mind is too big for your body.' I got a war on between a mind that wants things my body can't give it.

Pero cómo renunciar a lo que hemos deseado tanto aunque se quede sólo un día y desaparezca, haciendo el vacío más vacío, y las noches oscuras más oscuras y las noches lluviosas más húmedas. Quitarnos esto sería como quitarnos la comida de la boca.

I am not afraid of robots. I am afraid of people, people, people. I want them to remain human.

I know, I know. You're afraid of making mistakes. Don't be. Mistakes can be profited by. Man, when I was younger I shoved my ignorance in people's faces. They beat me with sticks. By the time I was forty my blunt instrument had been honed to a fine cutting point for me. If you hide your ignorance, no one will hit you and you'll never learn.

Then they'll feel they're thinking, they'll get a sense of motion without moving. And they'll be happy, because facts of that sort don't change. Don't give them any slippery stuff like philosophy or sociology to tie things up with. That way lies melancholy.

Ne govorim o stvarima, gospodine. Govorim o zna?enju stvari." ? Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451

I've been a fool all down the line. I can't stay long. I'm on my way God knows where." "At least you were a fool about the right things

And when you never look away all your life, by the time you are thirteen you have done twenty years taking in the laundry of the world.

We earth men have a talent for ruining big, beautiful things." – The Martian Chronicles by Ray Bradbury (1950)

Suddenly, he needed the gun again, to touch the shape of killing, like touching that wild old man.

Obojeni ne vole Malog crnog Samba. Spali ga. Bijeli nisu oduševljeni ?i?a Tominom kolibom. Spali je. Netko je napisao knjigu o duhanu i raku plu?a? Proizvo?a?i cigareta tule? Spali knjigu. Vedrina, Montag. Mir, Montag. Iznesi svoju borbu van. Još bolje, u spalionicu. str. 65.

Ah, Tanr?m, çoÄŸunluÄŸun o korkunç tiranl???. Hepimizin çalacak kendi arp? var. Ve hangi kula??nla dinleyeceÄŸini bilmek ÅŸimdi sana kalm??.

Be pragmatic, then. If you're not happy with the way your writing has gone, you might give my method a try. If you do, I think you might easily find a new definition for Work. And the word is LOVE. 1973

Los libros nos recuerdan que somos unos asnos y unos tontos. Son la guardia pretoriana del César, que murmura mientras los desfiles pasan ruidosamente por las avenidas: «Recuerda, César, que eres mortal».

What killed them?" Hathaway said simply, "Chicken pox.

Vidite li sad, dakle zašto su knjige omražene i zašto ih se boje? One pokazuju pore na licu života. str. 85.

Where did I find the courage to rebel, change my life, live alone? I don't want to over-estimate all this, but damn it, I love that nine-year-old, whoever in hell he was. Without him, I could not have survived to introduce these essays.

Sit down, Montag. Watch. Delicately, like the petals of a flower. Light the first page, light the second page. Each becomes a black butterfly. Beautiful, eh? Light the third page, from the second and so on, chain-smoking, chapter by chapter, all the silly things the words mean, all the false promises, all the secondhand notions and time-worn philosophies.

The stars are yours, if you have the head, the hands, and the heart for them.

Nothing, nothing of it left to hate--not an empty brass gun shell, or a twisted hemp, or a tree, or even a hill of it to hate.

Preciso ver meu psiquiatra agora. Sou obrigada a ir. Eu invento coisas para dizer. Não sei o que ele pensa de mim. Ele diz que sou uma cebola normal! Dou muito trabalho para ele ficar descascando as camadas.

He realised he and his mother were alone. Her hand trembled. He felt the tremble. Why? But she was bigger, stronger, more intelligent than himself, wasn't she? Did she, too, feel that intangible menace? That groaning out of darkness? That crouching malignancy down below? Was there, then, no strength in growing up? No solace in being an adult? No sanctuary in life? No fleshly citadel strong enough to withstand the scrabbling assaults of midnights? Doubts flushed him.

It was not the hysterical light of electricity but - what? But the strangely comfortable and rare and gently flattering light of the candle. One time, when he was a child, in a power-failure, his mother had found and lit a last candle and there had been a brief hour of rediscovery, of such illumination that space lost its vast dimensions and drew comfortably around them, and they, mother and son, alone, transformed...