Quotes About Reflection

Thinking little at all about nothing in particular.

Last night I thought about all the kerosene I've used in the past ten years. 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...It took some man a lifetime maybe to put some of his thoughts down, looking around at the world and life, and then I come along in two minutes and boom! it's all over.

The zipper displaces the button and a man lacks just that much time to think while dressing at dawn, a philosophical hour, and thus a melancholy hour.

Maybe the books can get us half out of the cave. They just might stop us from making the same damm insane mistakes!

We never sit anything out. We are cups, quietly and constantly being filled. The trick is knowing how to tip ourselves over and let the beautiful stuff out.

The Martians were there—in the canal—reflected in the water.... The Martians stared back up at them for a long, long silent time from the rippling water....

The father hesitated only a moment. He felt the vague pain in his chest. If I run, he thought, what will happen? Is Death important? No. Everything that happens before Death is what counts. And we've done fine tonight. Even Death can't spoil it.

From the outer edge of his life, looking back, there was only one remorse, and that was only that he wished to go on living.

I often wonder if God recognizes His own son the way we've dressed him up, or is it dressed him down?

Are you happy? she [Clarisse] said. Am I what? he [Montag] cried. But she was gone- running in the moonlight. Her front door shut gently.

It was September. In the last days when things are getting sad for no reason.

This was all he wanted now. Some signs that the immense world would accept him and give him the long time he needed to think all the things that must be thought.

I don't talk things, sir,' said Faber. 'I talk the meaning of things. I sit here and know I'm alive.

Books were only one type of receptacle where we stored a lot of things we were afraid we might forget. There is nothing magical in them, at all. The magic is only in what the books say, how they stitched the patches of the universe together into one garment for us.

You ask Why to a lot of things and you wind up very unhappy indeed, if you keep at it. The poor girl's better off dead

The psychiatrist wants to know why I go out and hike around in the forests and watch the birds and collect butterflies. I'll show you my collection some day. Good. They want to know what I do with my time. I tell them that sometimes I just sit and think . But I won't tell them what. I've got them running. And sometimes, I tell them, I like to put my head back, like this, and let the rain fall in my mouth. It tastes just like wine. Have you ever tried it?

Good writers touch life often.

We need not to be let alone. We need to be really bothered once in a while.

Some boys walk by and you cry, seeing them. They feel good, they look good, they are good. Oh, they're not above peeing off a bridge, or stealing an occasional dime-store pencil sharpener; it's not that. It's just, you know, seeing them pass, that's how they'll be all their life; they'll get hit, hurt, cut, bruised, and always wonder why, why does it happen? how can it happen to them?

That's sad, said Montag, quietly,(referring to The Hound) because all we put into it is hunting and finding and killing. What a shame if that's all it can ever know.

Kitaplar bize ne tür eÅŸekler ve aptallar olduÄŸumuzu hat?rlatmak içindir. Kitaplar, tören alay? büyük bir gürültü içinde caddede ilerlerken, Sezar'?n kula??na 'Unutma, Sezar, sen de ölümlüsün' diyen pretoryen muhaf?zlar?d?r.

They read the long afternoon through, while the cold November rain fell from the sky upon the quiet house.

I sometimes get up at night when I can't sleep and walk down into my library and open one of my books and read a paragraph and say, 'My God, did I write that?

We haven't been too bad, have we? No, nor enormously good. I suppose that's the trouble - we haven't been much of anything except us, while a big part of the world was busy being lots of awful things.