She didn't watch the dead, ancient bone-chess cities slide under, or the old canals filled with emptiness and dreams. Past dry rivers and dry lakes they flew, like a shadow of the moon, like a torch burning.
Oh, what strange wonderful clocks women are. They nest in Time. They make the flesh that holds fast and binds eternity. They live inside the gift, know power, accept, and need not mention it. Why speak of time when you are Time, and shape the universal moments, as they pass, into warmth and action?
The Martians were there-in the canal-reflected in the water.... The Martians stared back up at them for a long, long silent time from the rippling water....
So the carnival steams by, shakes ANY tree: it rains jackasses.
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.
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.
They stood there, King of the Hill, Top of the Heap, Ruler of All They Surveyed, Unimpeachable Monarchs and Presidents, trying to understand what it meant to own a world and how big a world really was.
The train skimmed on softly, slithering, black pennants fluttering, black confetti lost on its own sick-sweet candy wind, down the hill, with the two boys pursuing, the air was so cold they ate ice cream with each breath.
We earth men have a talent for ruining big, beautiful things.
They whispered to Caesar that he was mortal, then sold daggers at half-price in the grand March sale.
Too late, I found you can't wait to become perfect, you got to go out and fall down and get up with everybody else.
Why love the woman who is your wife? Her nose breathes in the air of a world that I know; therefore I love that nose. Her ears hear music I might sing half the night through; therefore I love her ears. Her eyes delight in seasons of the land; and so I love those eyes. Her tongue knows quince, peach, chokeberry, mint and lime; I love to hear it speaking. Because her flesh knows heat, cold, affliction, I know fire, snow, and pain. Shared and once again shared experience.
Why the Egyptian, Arabic, Abyssinian, Choctaw? Well, what tongue does the wind talk? What nationality is a storm? What country do rains come from? What color is lightning? Where does thunder goe when it dies?
You'll be found, your nickels, dimes and Indian-heads fused by electroplating. Abe Lincolns melted into Miss Columbias, eagles plucked raw on the backs of quarters, all run to quicksilver in your jeans. More! Any boy hit by lightning, lift his lid and there on his eyeball, pretty as the Lord's Prayer on a pin, find the last scene the boy ever saw! A box-Brownie photo, by God, of that fire climbing down the sky to blow you like a penny whistle, suck your soul back up along the bright stair!
Can't you recognize the human in the inhuman?
I have something to fight for and live for; that makes me a better killer. I've got what amounts to a religion now. It's learning how to breathe all over again. And how to lie in the sun getting a tan, letting the sun work into you. And how to hear music and how to read a book. What does your civilization offer?
I'm not anyone, I'm just myself; whatever I am, I am something, and now I'm something you can't help.
Far away, in the meadow, shadows flickered in the Mirror's Maze, as if parts of someone's life, yet unborn, were trapped there, waiting to be lived.
It is good to renew one's wonder, said the philosopher. Space travel has again made children of us all.
First of all, it was October, a rare month for boys.
Perhaps I'm not their dead one back, but I'm something almost better to them; an ideal shaped by their minds.
He knew what the wind was doing to them, where it was taking them, to all the secret places that were never so secret again in life.
Science is no more than an investigation of a miracle we can never explain, and art is an interpretation of that miracle.
I'm ALIVE. Thinking about it, noticing it, is new. You do things and don't watch. Then all of a sudden you look and see what you're doing and it's the first time, really.
But remember that the Captain belongs to the most dangerous enemy to truth and freedom, the solid unmoving cattle of the majority
I feel alive for the first time in years. I feel I'm doing what I should've done a lifetime ago. For a little while I'm not afraid. Maybe it's because I'm doing the right thing at last. Maybe it's because I've done a rash thing and don't want to look the coward to you. I suppose I'll have to do even more violent things, exposing myself so I won't fall down on the job and turn scared again
Oh God, the terrible tyranny of the majority.
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.
We cannot tell the precise moment when friendship is formed. As in filling a vessel drop by drop, there is at last a drop which makes it run over; so in a series of kindnesses there is at last one which makes the heart run over.
More Ray Bradbury Quotations (Based on Topics)
Books - World - Time - Thought & Thinking - Life - Night - Mind - People - Man - Death & Dying - Idea - God - Education - Majority & Minority - Love - Fire - Listening - Nature - Speaking - View All Ray Bradbury Quotations
More Ray Bradbury Quotations (By Book Titles)
- Dandelion Wine
- Fahrenheit 451
- Something Wicked This Way Comes
- The Martian Chronicles
Pablo Neruda - Thomas Paine - Robert Louis Stevenson - Oliver Wendell Holmes - Mitch Albom - Margaret J. Wheatley - Henry Drummond - Dr. Seuss - Arthur C. Clarke - Anne Frank