I was not predicting the future, I was trying to prevent it.
To feed your Muse, then, you should always have been hungry about life since you were a child. If not, it is a little late to start.
Any man who keeps working is not a failure. He may not be a great writer, but if he applies the old-fashioned virtues of hard, constant labor, he'll eventually make some kind of career for himself as...
Without libraries what have we? We have no past and no future.
„Аз не говоря за самите неща, сър — бе казал Фейбър. — Говоря за смисъла на нещата. Седя тук и зная, че живея.
Трябва ми чадър, за да се пазя от дъжда. Ужасно ме е страх, че ще се удавя, ако той отново вземе да ме облива с поток от думи.
We're all fools, said Clemens, all the time. It's just we're a different kind each day. We think, I'm not a fool today. I've learned my lesson. I was a fool yesterday but not this morning. Then tomorr...
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.
There it is.And he watched with now-gentle sorrow and now-quick delight, and at last quiet acceptance as all the bits and pieces of his house mixed, stirred, settled, poised, and ran steadily again.Th...
The river was mild and leisurely, going away from the people who ate shadows for breakfast and steam for lunch and vapors for supper.
The grass whispered under his body. He put his arm down, feeling the sheath of fuzz on it, and, far away, below, his toes creaking in his shoes. The wind sighed over his shelled ears. The world slippe...
The books are to remind us what asses and fools we are.
She lay awake for many hours into the night, among her trunks and trinkets. She glanced over at the neat stacks of materials and toys and opera plumes and said, aloud, Does it really belong to me? Or...
Self-conciousness is the enemy of all creativity.
Scopo dei libri è di ricordarci quanto siamo somari, dissennati.
Rubens! All bosom and bum, big cumulus clouds of pink flesh, eh? You can feel the heart beating like a kettledrum in a ton of that stuff. Every woman a bed; throw yourself on them, sink from sight.
Putting out the stars and extinguishing the sun.
Plot is no more than footprints left in the snow after your characters have run by on their way to incredible destinations.
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...
I’m the thing you most desire, you represent the thing I least desire, death. It’s just the opposite of love.