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How to feel your way toward something honest, hidden under the trapdoor on the top of your skull.

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
Way
Skulls
Hidden
Toward
Honest
Feel
Feels
Writing
Trapdoor
Something
Skull

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Disbelief is catching. It rubs off on people.
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The library is the biggest cracker box factory in the world. The more you eat, the more you want.
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The father hesitated only a moment. He felt the vague pain in his chest. If I run, he thought, what will happen? Is Death important? No. Everything that happens before Death is what counts. And we've done fine tonight. Even Death can't spoil it.
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Kerosene, he said, because the silence had lengthened, is nothing but perfume to me.
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People try to force things. It's disastrous. Just leave your mind alone. Your intuition knows what it wants to write, so get out of the way.
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The good writers touch life often. The mediocre ones run a quick hand over her. The bad ones rape her and leave her for the flies.
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Kill two birds with one stone, feed the homeless to the hungry.
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Are you happy? she [Clarisse] said. Am I what? he [Montag] cried. But she was gone- running in the moonlight. Her front door shut gently.
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And the lesson was this sit in the sun, head down, within a prickly vine, in a flickery light, or open light, and the world will come to you. The sky will come in its time, bringing rain, and the earth will rise through you, from beneath, and make you rich and make you full.
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Life should be touched, not strangled.
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Memory is an illusion, nothing more. It is a fire that needs constant tending.
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We should go to the moon and prepare a base to fire a rocket off to Mars and then go to Mars and colonize Mars. Then when we do that, we will live forever.
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Digression is the soul of wit. Take the philosophic asides away from Dante, Milton or Hamlet's father's ghost and what stays is dry bones.
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Do you ever read any of the books you burn? He laughed. That's against the law! Oh. Of course.
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Journalism keeps you planted in the earth.
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Plot is no more than footprints left in the snow after your characters have run by on their way to incredible destinations.
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There is more than one way to burn a book.
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If I was ever a rare fine summer person, that's long ago. Most of us are half-and-half. The August noon in us works to stave off the November chills. We survive by what little Fourth of July wits we've stashed away. But there are times when we're all autumn people.
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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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Savory...that's a swell word. And Basil and Betel. Capsicum. Curry. All great. But Relish, now, Relish with a capital R. No argument, that' the best.
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