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If you don't want a man unhappy politically, don't give him two sides to a question to worry him give him one. Better yet, give him none.

Ray Bradbury

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Ray Bradbury
Age: 91 †
Born: 1920
Born: August 22
Died: 2012
Died: June 6
Novelist
Playwright
Poet
Prosaist
Science Fiction Writer
Screenwriter
Writer
Waukegan
Illinois
Ray Douglas Bradbury
Better
Unhappy
Giving
None
Men
Question
Worry
Sides
Political
Two
Give
Politically

More quotes by Ray Bradbury

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You can't learn to write that way - by writing directly for the screen. Wait until you're 30. But in the meantime write 200 short stories. You've got to learn how to write!
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Suddenly the day was gone, night came out from under each tree and spread.
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It's not going to do any good to land on Mars if we're stupid.
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The things that you do should be things that you love, and things that you love should be things that you do.
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I've grown up on a diet of metaphors. If young writers would find those writers who can give them metaphors by the bushel and the peck, then they'll become better writers - to learn how to capsualize things and present them in metaphorical form.
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Hollywood was a good influence because I was madly in love with films, and the films had a direct influence on me.
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Love is easy, and I love writing.
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Everyone has a telephone. Whether they can afford it or not. It's one of those things that people have, regardless of their income.
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But remember that the Captain belongs to the most dangerous enemy to truth and freedom, the solid unmoving cattle of the majority
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He wore his happiness like a mask and the girl had run off across the lawn with the mask and there was no way of going to knock on her door and ask for it back.
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He felt his smile slide away, melt, fold over and down on itself like a tallow skin, like the stuff of a fantastic candle burning too long and now collapsing and now blown out.
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My characters talk to one another, and when it reaches a certain pitch of excitement I jump out of bed and run and trap them before they are gone.
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I went to bed and woke in the middle of the night thinking I heard someone cry, thinking I myself was weeping, and I felt my face and it was dry. Then I looked at the window and thought: Why, yes, it's just the rain, the rain, always the rain, and turned over, sadder still, and fumbled about for my dripping sleep and tried to slip it back on.
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The rockets set the bony meadows afire, turned rock to lava, turned wood to charcoal, transmuted water to steam, made sand and silica into green glass which lay like shattered mirrors reflecting the invasion, all about. The rockets came like drums, beating in the night. The rockets came like locusts, swarming and settling in blooms of rosy smoke.
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From the outer edge of his life, looking back, there was only one remorse, and that was only that he wished to go on living.
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I was one of Them: the Strange Ones. The Funny People. The Odd Tribes of autograph collectors and photographers. The Ones who waited through long days and nights, who used other people's dreams for their lives.
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It was only the other night everything was fine and the next thing I know Im drowning. How many times can a man go down and still be alive? I can't breathe
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I used to take my short stories to girls' homes and read them to them. Can you imagine the reaction reading a short story to a girl instead of pawing her?
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There is only one type of story in the world-your story.
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I did what most writers do at their beginnings: emulated my elders, imitated my peers, thus turning away from any possibility of discovering truths beneath my skin and behind my eye.
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