Some people turn sad awfully young. No special reason, it seems, but they seem almost to be born that way. They bruise easier, tire faster, cry quicker, remember longer and, as I say, get sadder younger than anyone else in the world. I know, for I’m one of them. — Ray Bradbury, Dandelion Wine. (Doubleday… Continue reading Ray Bradbury
Some summers refuse to end. — Ray Bradbury, Farewell Summer (William Morrow, 2006) (via luthienne)
In this instant it was an individual problem seeking an individual solution. He must accept being alone and work on from there. ― Ray Bradbury, Dandelion Wine. (Doubleday 1957)
Everything that happens before Death is what counts. ― Ray Bradbury, Something Wicked This Way Comes. (Avon; Reprint edition, March 1, 1998) Originally published 1962.
First of all, it was October, a rare month for boys. ― Ray Bradbury, Something Wicked This Way Comes. (Avon; Reprint edition, March 1, 1998) Originally published 1962.
That country where it is always turning late in the year. That country where the hills are fog and the rivers are mist; where noons go quickly, dusks and twilights linger, and midnights stay. That country composed in the main of cellars, sub-cellars, coal-bins, closets, attics, and pantries faced away from the sun. That country… Continue reading Ray Bradbury
I care so much I’m sick. — Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451. (Plaza y Janes, January 3, 2006) Originally published Ocatober 1953
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. ― Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451. (Plaza y Janes, January 3, 2006) Originally published Ocatober 1953.
June dawns, July noons, August evenings over, finished, done, and gone forever with only the sense of it all left here in his head. Now, a whole autumn, a white winter, a cool and greening spring to figure sums and totals of summer past. And if he should forget, the dandelion wine stood in the… Continue reading Ray Bradbury
…After all, each story is a Rorschach Test, isn’t it? And if people find beasties and bedbugs in my ink-splotches, I cannot prevent it, can I? They will insist on seeing them, anyway, and that is their privilege. Still, I wish people, quasi-intellectuals, did not try so hard to find the man under the old… Continue reading Ray Bradbury