Quotes from Ray Bradbury

See wonder, live as if you'd drop dead in ten seconds. See the world. It's more fantastic than any dream made or paid for in [TV] factories. Ask no guarantees, ask for no security, there never was such an animal. And if there were, it would be related to the great sloth which hangs upside down in a tree all day every day, sleeping its life away. To hell with that; shake the tree and knock the great sloth down on his ass.

Ten minutes after death a man's a speck of black dust. Let's not quibble over individuals with memoriams. Forget them. Burn them all, burn everything. Fire is bright and fire is clean.

Montag paced the floor and came back and squatted down and read a page as many as ten times, aloud.

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

All of his books were burned in the Great Fire. That's thirty years ago—2006.

Todos temos que abandonar algo quando morremos, dizia-me o meu avô. Uma criança, um livro, um quadro, uma casa, um muro ou um par de sapatos. Ou um jardim acabado de plantar. Algo que tenhamos tocado de uma certa forma, para que a nossa alma possa ter um sítio para onde ir quando morrermos. E quando depois olharem para essa árvore ou essa flor que plantámos, é como se olhassem para nós.

Los libros están para recordarnos lo tontos y estúpidos que somos. Son la guardia pretoriana de César, susurrando mientras tiene lugar el desfile por la avenida: «Recuerda, César, eres mortal.»

From now on I hope always to stay alert, to educate myself as best I can. But, lacking this, in future I will relaxedly turn back to my secret mind to see what it has observed when I thought I was sitting this one out. We never sit anything out. We are cups, constantly and quietly being filled. The trick is, knowing how to tip ourselves over and let the beautiful stuff out.

Birinin öldüÄŸünü bildiÄŸinizde, ard?nda b?rakt??? hava, yapt???n?z her hareketi, soluk alp veriÅŸinizi bile engeller.

post-apocalyptic world where death provides the best way out of a ravaged landscape.

Todos deben dejar algo al morir, decía mi abuelo. Un niño o un libro o un cuadro o una casa o una pared o un par de zapatos. O un jardín. Algo que las manos de uno han tocado de algún modo. El alma tendrá entonces adonde ir el día de la muerte, y cuando la gente mire ese árbol, o esa flor, allí estará uno. No

She laid a hand on his face. "Son," she said. "We love you. We all love you. No matter how different you are, no matter if you leave us one day." She kissed his cheek. "And if and when you die your bones will lie undisturbed, we'll see to that, you'll lie at ease forever, and I'll come see you every All Hallows' Eve and tuck you in more secure.

Christ is one of the `family' now. I often wonder it God recognizes His own son the way we've dressed him up, or is it dressed him down? He's a regular peppermint stick now, all sugar-crystal and saccharine when he isn't making veiled references to certain commercial products that every worshipper absolutely needs.

The Toynbee Convector" was born because of my reaction to the bombardment of despair we so frequently find in our newspaper headlines and television reportage, and the feeling of imminent doom in a society that has triumphed over circumstances again and again, but fails to look back and realize where it has come from, and what it has achieved.

Si no quieres que un hombre sea políticamente desgraciado, no lo preocupes mostrándole dos aspectos de una misma cuestión. Muéstrale uno. Que olvide que existe la guerra. Es preferible que un gobierno sea ineficiente, autoritario y aficionado a los impuestos, a que la gente se preocupe por esas cosas.

Mas é isso que a humanidade tem de maravilhoso: por mais desencorajantes e terríveis que sejam as circunstâncias, nuca deixa de voltar a tentar, porque sabe que há coisas que são importantes e merecedoras do risco da tentativa.

He wanted to be seen. He wished to drown me in his need.

qué piensa el Sabueso allá abajo, toda la noche? ¿Somos nosotros los que lo animamos realmente? Me da frío. –Sólo piensa lo que queremos que piense. –Sería triste –dijo Montag en voz baja–, pues sólo ponemos en él ideas de caza, persecución y muerte. Qué lástima si eso es todo lo que sabe.

Montag, a funny thing. Heard tell this morning. Fireman in Seattle, purposefully set a Mechanical Hound to his own chemical complex and let it loose. What kind of suicide would you call that?

If you don't want a house built, hide the nails and wood. If you don't want a man unhappy politically, don't give him two sides to a question to worry him; give him one. Better yet, give him none.

Over the years, they had tuned the walk, prying up an A board and nailing it here, lifting up an F board and pounding it back down there until the walk was as near onto being melodious as weather and two entrepreneurs could fashion it.

Montag, os velhos que ficam em casa, receosos, cuidando de seus ossos quebradiços como casca de amendoim, não têm nenhum direito de criticar.

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

Listen. Easy now," said the old man gently. "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.[...]