We carry our homes in our heads.
We cannot tell the precise moment when a friendship is formed. As in filling a vessel drop by drop, there is at last a drop which makes it run over; so in a series of kindnesses there is at least one...
We all just gave up on that and stayed friends.Мы просто перестали об этом говорить и остались друзьями.
We all have our harps to play. And it's up to you now to know with which ear you'll listen.
Way late at night Will had heard—how often?—train whistles jetting steam along the rim of sleep, forlorn, alone and far, no matter how near they came. Sometimes he woke to find tears on his cheek, ask...
Was she conscious of her talent? Hardly. If asked about her cooking, Grandma would look down at her hands which some glorious instinct sent on journeys to be gloved in flour, or to plumb disencumbered...
Váyase a casa, Montang. Váyase a la cama, ¿Por qué desperdiciar sus horas finales, dando vueltas en su jaula y afirmando que no es una ardilla?
Too much of anything isn't good for anyone.
Time is so strange, and life is twice as strange. The cogs miss, the wheels turn, and lives interlace too early or too late. I lived too long, that much is certain. And you were born either too early...
Those who don't build must burn.
Those who don't build must burn. It's as old as history and juvenile delinquents.
This book has pores. It has features. This book can go under the microscope. You’d find life under the glass, streaming past in infinite profusion. The more pores, the more truthfully recorded details...
They all say the same things and nobody says anything different from anyone else.
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.
The world swarms with people, each one drowning, but each swimming a different stroke to the far shore.
The quality of death, like that of life, must be of an infinite variety, and if one has already died once, then what was there to look for in dying for good and all, as he was now?
The old man would go on with this talking and this talking, drop by drop, stone by stone, flake by flake. His mind would well over at last and he would not be Montag any more, this the old man told hi...
The first light on the roof outside; very early morning. The leaves on all the trees tremble with a soft awakening to any breeze the dawn may offer.
The feeding of the Muse then, which we have spent most of our time on here, seem to me to be the continual running after loves, the checking of these loves against one's present and future needs, the...
The children guessed, if they did not whisper it, that all science fiction is an attempt to solve problems by pretending to look the other way. In