Quotes About Quote

And the odd think in Dad's voice was the sound truth makes being said.

The man was cold as an albino frog.

Moundshroud, leaning over, gave a snort: "Why those are Sins, boys! And nondescripts. There crawls the Worm of Conscience!

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

I lie here sleeping, and these people are the fragments of my bloodless dreaming.

The three empty walls of the room were like the pale brows of sleeping giants now, empty of dreams.

We are all bits and pieces of history and literature and international law, Byron, Tom Paine, Machiavelli or Christ, it's here.

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!

They contain half the damning truths I suspected at midnight, and half of the saving truths I re-found next noon.

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!

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.

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

The kitchen, without a doubt, was the center of creation, all things revolved around it; it was the pediment that sustained the temple.

And the odd thing in Dad's voice was the sound truth makes being said.

And all of our concerns have to do with economics and politics and not with the voice and sound of reason.

And a word carries far-very far-deals destruction through time as the bullets go flying through space.

The Zangiacomo band was not making music; it was simply murdering silence with a vulgar, ferocious energy.

No eloquence could have been so withering to one's belief in mankind as his final burst of sincerity.

Thames stretched before us like the beginning of an interminable waterway. In the offing the sea and the sky were welded

I don't want to excuse myself; but I would like to explain—I would like somebody to understand—somebody—one person at least! You! Why not you?