Quotes About Expression

The woman knew every language and every word in every language. She spoke with fire and alcohol and smoke.

Read poetry every day of your life. Poetry is good because it flexes muscles you don't use often enough. Poetry expands the senses and keeps them in prime condition.

Colored people don't like the book 'Little Black Sambo.' Burn it. White people don't feel good about 'Uncle Tom's Cabin.' Burn it. Someone's written a book on tobacco and cancer of the lungs? The cigarette people are weeping? Burn the book. Serenity, Montag. Peace, Montag. Take your fight outside. Better yet, into the incinerator (p. 59).

And I thought about books. And for the first time I realized that a man was behind each one of the books. A man had to think them up. A man had to take a long time to put them down on paper. And I'd never even thought that thought before. He got out of bed. It took some man a lifetime maybe to put some of his thoughts down, looking at the world and life.

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

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

Y por primera vez comprendí que detrás de cada libro hay un hombre. Un hombre que tuvo que pensarlo. Un hombre que empleó mucho tiempo en llevarlo al papel.

Yo iba a embarcar en el último cohete, pero preferí quedarme, ¿sabes por qué? —¿Por qué? —Porque todos se metían conmigo. Por eso me quedé; para echarme perfume encima el día entero y beber diez mil cervezas y comer dulces y bombones sin que la gente me esté diciendo ¡Oh, cuidado, eso tiene muchas calorías!. Y aquí estoy. —Y aquí estás.

La gente era como las antorchas, que ardían hasta consumirse. ¿Acaso había muchas personas cuyos rostros captaban algo tuyo y te devolvían tu propia expresión, tus pensamientos más íntimos?

Chi non crea non può fare a meno di distruggere.

I leave you now at the bottom of your own stair, at half after midnight, with a pad, a pen, and a list to be made. Conjure the nouns, alert the secret self, taste the darkness. Your own Thing stands waiting way up there in the attic shadows. If you speak softly, and write any old word that wants to jump out of your nerves onto the page... your Thing at the top of the stairs in your own private night... May well come down.

Accordion, harmonica, wine, shout, dance, wail, roundabout, clash of pan, laughter.

There's a relationship between the great poems of the world and the great screenplays: they both deal in compact images.

Creen que soy insociable. No me adapto. Es muy extraño. En el fondo, soy muy sociable. Todo depende de lo que se entienda por ser sociable, ¿no? Para mí, representa hablar de cosas como éstas. —Hizo sonar unas nueces que habían caído del árbol del patio—. O comentar lo extraño que es el mundo. Estar con la gente es agradable. Pero no considero que sea sociable reunir a un grupo de gente y, después, no dejar que hable.

If there is no feeling, there cannot be great art.

if you are writing without zest, without gusto, without love, without fun, you are only half a writer. It

Don't let them take your crying, turn it upside down and use it for their own smile! I'll be damned if death wears my sadness for glad rags.

Neviens cilvÄ"ks otr? vairs neklaus?s, bet man vajag ar k?du parun?ties. Es nevaru run?t ar sien?m, jo t?s kliedz uz mani. Es nevaru run?t ar sievu, jo t? klaus?s vienÄ«gi sien?s. Es gribu, lai k?ds mani uz­klausÄ«tu. Un, ja es run?tu labi ilgi, varbÅ«t pateiktu kaut ko jÄ"dzÄ«gu. Un vÄ"l es gribu, lai jÅ«s man iem?c?t saprast to, ko es lasu.

È felice lei? domandò. Sono cosa? gridò Montag

Sólo quiero alguien que oiga lo que tengo que decir. Y quizás si hablo lo suficiente, diga algo con sentido.

And when a man talks from his heart, in his moment of truth, he speaks poetry.

Words are like leaves and where they most abound, Much fruit of sense beneath is rarely found

So now do you see why books are hated and feared? They show the pores in the face of life. The comfortable people only wax moon faces, poreless, hairless, expressionless. We are living in a time when flowers are trying to live on flowers, instead of growing on good rain and black loam. Even fireworks, for all their prettiness, come from the chemistry of the earth. Yet somehow we think we can grow, feeding on flowers and fireworks, without completing the cycle back to reality.

Y para eso escribo, escribo, escribo, al mediodía o a las tres de la madrugada. Para no estar muerto.