Quotes About Ray Bradbury

He wore his happiness like a mask and the girl had run off across the lawn with the mask and there was no way of going to knock on her door and ask for it back.

Miraculously, smoke curled out of his own mouth, his nose, his ears, his eyes, as if his soul had been extinguished within his lungs at the very moment the sweet pumpkin gave up its incensed ghost.

His flesh took paleness from his bones.

The man was cold as an albino frog.

Amoebas cannot sin because they reproduce by fission. They do not covet wives or murder each other.

Fire is bright and fire is clean. That way lies melancholy. Don't let the torrent of melancholy and drear philosophy drown our world.

toward that suddenly brilliant town called Obscurity by a dazzling seashore called The Past.

I'm still crazy. The rain feels good. I love to walk in it.

Ray Bradbury's definition of a book is at the end, when he points out that we should not judge our books by their covers, and that some books exist between covers that are perfectly people-shaped.) —Neil

So while our art cannot, as we wish it could, save us from wars, privation, envy, greed, old age, or death, it can revitalize us amidst it all.

Y por último, si le sirve de algo, recuérdeme como un neurótico que enloqueció un día de verano y que nunca recobró la razón. Así será más fácil para usted.

wore his happiness like a mask and the girl had run off across the lawn with the mask and there was no way of going to knock on her door and ask for it back.

They softly issued forth exhalations of air that smelled like ancient yellow beasts.

Montag looked at these men whose faces were sunburnt by a thousand real and ten thousand imaginary fires.

What - the smell of kerosene? My wife always complains,' he laughed. 'You never wash it off completely.

Who ever heard of a Martian not invading? Who!

Did you hear them, did you hear these monsters talking about monsters? Oh God, the way they jabber about people and their own children and themselves and the way they talk about their husbands and the way they talk about war, dammit, I stand here and I can't believe it!

But do you know, we never ask questions, or at least most don't; they just run the answers at you, bing, bing, bing... It's a lot of funnels and a lot of water poured down the spout and out the bottom, and them telling us it's wine when it's not.

It was the twentieth year after the Great War. Mars was a tomb planet.

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?

There was white in the flesh of his mouth and his cheeks and his hair was white and his eyes had faded, with white in the vague blueness there.

Hers was simply not a pew shaped spine.

In Los Angeles you get the sense sometimes that there's a mysterious patrol at night: when the streets are empty and everyone's asleep, they go erasing the past. It's like a bad Ray Bradbury story.

If you don't care about science enough to be interested in it on its own, you shouldn't try to write hard science fiction. You can write like Ray Bradbury and Harlan Ellison as much as you want.