Yakmak bir zevkti.
You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you. For writing allows just the proper recipes of truth, life, reality as you are able to eat, drink, and digest without hyperventilating and.
I learned long ago that I am not seeing directly, that my subconscious is doing most of the “sponging” and it will be years before any usable impressions surface.
They were given the new job, as custodians of our peace of mind, the focus of our understandable and rightful dread of being inferior; official censors, judges, and executors. That’s you, Montag, and that’s me.
Whenever a light blinked out, life threw another switch; rooms were illumined afresh.
Let us go into her room and strangle her,” said one of the men. “No, that would not be right,” said a woman. “Let us throw her from the window.” Everyone laughed tiredly.
Sometimes I drive all night and come back and you don’t know it. It’s fun out in the country. You hit rabbits, sometimes you hit dogs.
Space travel has again made children of us all.
Words are like leaves and where they most abound, Much fruit of sense beneath is rarely found.’ Alexander Pope.
A little learning is a dangerous thing. Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring; There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain, and drinking largely sobers us again.’ Pope.
The words become poetry that no one minds, because no one has thought to call it that. Time is there. Love is there. Story is there.
But they all echo the same truths of explosive self-revelation and continuous astonishment at what your deep well contains if you just haul off and shout down it.
The wind whistled, was cool: it was an early autumn evening, no longer a late summer one.
The jet bombers going over, going over, going over, one two, one two, six of them, nine of them, twelve of them, one and one and one and another and another and another, did all the screaming for him.
Those who don’t build must burn. It’s as old as history and juvenile delinquents.” “So that’s what I am.” “There’s some of it in all of us.
So along the road those flowers spread that, when touched, give down a shower of autumn rust. By every path it looks as if a ruined circus had passed and loosed a trail of ancient iron at every turning of a wheel. The rust was laid out everywhere, strewn under trees and by riverbanks and near the tracks themselves where once a locomotive had gone but went no more. So flowered flakes and railroad track together turned to moulderings upon the rim of autumm.
There are too many of us, he thought. There are billions of us and that’s too many. Nobody knows anyone. Strangers come and violate you. Strangers come and cut your heart out.
The mind drinks less and less. Impatience. Highways full of crowds going somewhere, somewhere, somewhere, nowhere. The gasoline refugee. Towns run into motels, people in nomadic surges from place to place, following the moon tides, living tonight in the room where you slept this noon and I the night before.
I saw the way things were going, a long time back. I said nothing. I’m one of the innocents who could have spoken up and out when no one would listen to the ‘guilty’, but I did not speak and thus became guilty myself.
Douglas eyed a high cloud passing that had never been that shape before and would never be that shape again.