So it was the hand that started it all . . . His hands had been infected, and soon it would be his arms . . . His hands were ravenous.
Ray BradburyIn sum, do not insult me with the beheadings, finger choppings or the lung-deflations you plan for my works. I need my head to shake or nod, my hand to wave or make into a fist, my lungs to shout or whisper with. I will not go gently onto a shelf, degutted, to become a non-book.
All you umpires, back to the bleachers. Referees, hit the showers. It's my game. I pitch, I hit, I catch. I run the bases. At sunset I've won or lost. At sunrise, I'm out again, giving it the old try.
And no one can help me. Not even you.
Stichwörter: on-writing coda
From this outer edge of his life, looking back, there was only one remorse, and that was only that he wished to go on living. Did all dying people feel this way, as if they had never lived? Did life seem that short, indeed, over and done before you took a breath? Did it seem this abrupt and impossible to everyone, or only to himself, here, now, with a few hours left to him for thought and deliberation?
Ray BradburyStichwörter: death kaleidoscope
And besides, I like to cry. After I cry hard it's like it's morning again and I'm starting the day over.
Ray BradburyI am madness maddened when it comes to books, writers, and the great granary silos where their wits are stored.
Ray BradburySometimes the man who looks happiest in town, with the biggest smile, is the one carrying the biggest load of sin. There are smiles
Ray BradburyStichwörter: man sin good pig sty
Every morning I jump out of bed and step on a landmine. The landmine is me. After the explosion, I spend the rest of the day putting the pieces together.
Ray BradburyStichwörter: writing writers creative-process destruction chaos construction
Afternoons, when the fossil sea was warm and motionless, and the wine trees stood stiff in the yard, and the little distant Martian bone town was all enclosed, and no one drifted out their doors, you could see Mr. K himself in his room, reading from a metal book with raised hieroglyphs over which he brushed his hand, as one might play a harp. And from the book, as his fingers stroked, a voice sang, a soft ancient voice, which told tales of when the sea was red steam on the shore and ancient men had carried clouds of metal insects and electric spiders into battle.
Ray BradburySomeone who loved night arrivals and dark departures, for the hell, the fun, the death of it?
Ray BradburyYou ask Why to a lot of things and you wind up very unhappy indeed, if you keep at it. The poor girl's better off dead
Ray BradburyStichwörter: questions-and-answers unhappy
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