Her face was like a snow-covered island upon which rain might fall, but it felt no rain; over which clouds might pass their moving shadows, but she felt no shadow.
He was part of us and when he died all the actions stopped dead, and there was no one to do them just the way he did. He was individual. He was an important man. i've never gotten over his death. Ofte...
He stood and he only had one leg. The other was like a chunk of burnt pine-log he was carrying along as a penance for some obscure sin.
He smelled of moon swamps and old Egyptian bandages. He was something found in museums, wrapped in nicotine linens, sealed in glass. But he was alive, puling like a babe, and shriveling unto death, fa...
He says I'm a regular onion! I keep him busy peeling away the layers.
He ran on the white tiles up through the tunnels, ignoring the escalators, because he wanted to feel his feet move, arms swing, lungs clench, unclench, feel his throat go raw with air.
He raged for hours. And the skeleton, ever the frail and solelmn philosopher, hung quietly inside, saying not a word, suspended like a delicate insect within a chrysalis, waiting and waiting.
He knew it would take as many years as could think of now to forget the tracks, no matter how deeply buried. Some morning in autumn, spring, or winter he kn he’d wake and, if he didn’t go near the win...
He had felt a braveness which he had thought to be the genuine thing, and now he knew that it had been nothing but shock and the objectivity possible in shock.
He almost turned back to make the walk again, to give her time to appear. He was certain if he tried the same route, everything would work out fine.
Good writers touch life often.
Gardening is the handiest excuse for being a philosopher. Nobody guesses, nobody accuses, nobody knows, but there you are, Plato in the peonies, Socrates force-growing his own hem-lock. A man toting a...
Fuego brillante Posfacio de Ray Bradbury, febrero de 1993
For your file...in case you decide to be angry with me.
Don't listen, whispered Faber. He's trying to confuse. He's slippery. Watch out.
Do we have the Book of Ecclesiastes?One. A man named Harris in Youngstown.Montag. Granger took Montag's shoulder firmly. Walk carefully. Guard your health. If anything should happen to Harris, you are...
Death was his little sister one morning when he awoke at the age of seven, looked into her crib, and saw her staring up at him with a blind, blue, fixed and frozen stare until the men came with a smal...
Death makes everything else sad. But death itself only scares. If there wasn't death, all the other things wouldn't get tainted.
Dad, said Will, his voice very faint. Are you a good person?To you and your mother, yes, I try. But no man's a hero to himself. I've lived with me a lifetime, Will. I know everything worth knowing abo...
Cărțile nu erau decât un fel de receptacul în care oamenii înmagazinau o mulțime de cunoștințe pe care se temeau c-ar putea să le uite. Nu e nimic magic în cărți; magic e doar ceea ce spun cărțile și...