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When the wind is right, a faint odor of kerosene is exhaled from Senator McCarthy.

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
Odor
Faint
Senator
Senators
Wind
Cold
Kerosene
War
Exhaled
Right
Mccarthy

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My gosh, if you’re going away, we got a million things to talk about! All the things we would’ve talked about next month, the month after! Praying mantises, zeppelins, acrobats, sword swallowers!
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Not to write, for many of us, is to die. We must take ares each and every day, perhaps knowing that the battle cannot be entirely won, but fight we must, if only a gentle bout. The smallest effort to win means, at the end of each day, a sort of victory.
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Marriage made people old and familiar, while still young.
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I'll hold on to the world tight some day. I've got one finger on it now that's a beginning.
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When you write - explode - fly apart - disintegrate! Then give time enough to think, cut, rework, and rewrite.
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Poetry expands the senses and keeps them in prime condition. It keeps you aware of your nose, your eye, your ear, your tongue, your hand.
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Living at risk is jumping off the cliff and building your wings on the way down.
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Work is the only answer. I have three rules to live by. One, get your work done. If that doesn't work, shut up and drink your gin. And when all else fails, run like hell!
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Science-fiction balances you on the cliff. Fantasy shoves you off.
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You feed yourself. Make sure you have all the information, whether it's aesthetic, scientific, mathematical, I don't care what it is. Then you walk away from it and let it ferment. You ignore it and pretend you don't care. Next thing you know, the answer comes.
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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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Get rid of those friends of yours who make fun of you and don't believe in you. And when you leave here tonight, go home, make a phone call and fire them. Anyone that doesn't believe in you and your future, to hell with them.
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Long before you knew what death was you were wishing it on someone else.
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I discovered me in the library. I went to find me in the library.
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Time is so strange and life is twice as strange.
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I write all of my novels and stories, as you have seen, in a great surge of delightful passion. Only recently, glancing at the novel, I realized that Montag is named after a paper manufacturing company. And Faber, of course, is a maker of pencils! What a sly thing my subconscious was, to name them thus. And not tell me!
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A book is a loaded gun.
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How long has it been since you wrote a story where your real love or your real hatred somehow got onto the paper? When was the last time you dared release a cherished prejudice so it slammed the page like a lightning bolt?
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The television, that insidious beast, that Medusa which freezes a billion people to stone every night, staring fixedly, that Siren which called and sang and promised so much and gave, after all, so little.
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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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