Quotes About Transformation

Merhamet, Montag, merhamet. Onlarla tart??ma, canlar?n? s?kma; daha çok yak?n zamana dek sen de onlardand?n...

Yet somehow we think we can grow, feeding on flowers and fireworks, without completing the cycle back to reality.

But one strange wild dark long year, Halloween came early. One year Halloween came on October 24, three hours after midnight. At that time, James Nightshade of 97 Oak Street was thirteen years, eleven months, twenty-three days old. Next door, William Halloway was thirteen years, eleven months and twenty-four days old. Both touched toward fourteen; it almost trembled in their hands. And that was the October week when they grew up overnight, and were never so young any more. . .

Sit down, Montag. Watch. Delicately, like the petals of a flower. Light the first page, light the second page. Each becomes a black butterfly. Beautiful, eh? Light the third page, from the second and so on, chain-smoking, chapter by chapter, all the silly things the words mean, all the false promises, all the secondhand notions and time-worn philosophies.

Earth changed in the black sky. It caught fire. Part of it seemed to come apart in a million pieces, as if a gigantic jigsaw had exploded. It burned with an unholy dripping glare for a minute, three times normal size, then dwindled.

It doesn't matter what you do, he said, so long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that's like you after you take your hands away.

Before the bus had run another fifty yards on the highway, its destination would be meaningless, and its point of departure changed from metropolis to junkyard.

La magia reside solamente en aquello que los libros dicen; en cómo cosen los harapos del universo para darnos una nueva vestidura.

Se les dio otro trabajo, el de custodios de la paz de nuestras mentes, el centro de nuestro comprensible y recto temor a ser inferiores. El bombero se transformó en censor, juez y ejecutor oficial.

Quemémoslo todo, absolutamente todo. El fuego es brillante y limpio.

Even now he could feel the start of the long journey, the leave taking, the going away from the self he had been.

with him holding her she felt so beautiful she knew their marriage had slipped her from her ugliness, like a bright sword from its case.

It doesn't matter what you do, he said, as long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that's like after you take your hands away.

Someday you'll be as old as I. People will say the same. 'Oh, no,' they'll say, 'those vultures were never hummingbirds, those owls were never orioles, those parrots were never bluebirds! One day you'll be like me!

It doesn't matter what you do, he said, so long as you change something from the way before you touched it into something that's like you after you take your hands away.

One time, as a child, in a power failure, his mother had found and lit a last candle and there had been a brief hour of rediscovery, of such illumination that space lost its vast dimensions and drew comfortably around them, and they, mother and son, alone, transformed, hoping that the power might not come on again too soon. . .

So it was the hand that started it all... His hands had been infected, and soon it would be his arms. He could feel the poison working up his wrists and into his elbows and his shoulders, and then the jump-over from shoulder-blade to shoulder-blade like a spark leaping a gap. His hands were ravenous. And his eyes were beginning to feel hunger, as if they must look at something, anything, everything.

Whenever a light blinked out, life threw another switch; rooms were illumined afresh.

It doesn't matter what you do, he said, so long as your change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that's like you after you take your hands away.

Burn all, burn everything. Fire is bright and fire is clean.

His eyes took on a different color. It was a subtle shift, a flex, like a man stepping out from the shade of a tree into sunlight on a cloudy day.

But Douglas, standing on the lawn, was seeing how it would be tomorrow, when the men would pour hot tar over the silver tracks so you would never know a trolley had ever run this way. He knew it would take as many years as he could think of now to forget the tracks, no matter how deeply buried.

The rain continued. He walked forward, tearing off his clothes as he went.

Confess the truth until it moves from head to heart." -Ray Comfort