Ray Bradbury

A single face turned upward toward all Time One flesh, one ecstasy, one peace.

It was in their friendship they just wanted to run forever, shadow and shadow.

So in sum, what are we? We are the creatures that know and know too much. That leaves us with such a burden again we have a choice, to laugh or cry. No other animal does either. We do, depending on the season and the need.

We travel for romance, we travel for architecture, and we travel to be lost.

Memory is an illusion, nothing more. It is a fire that needs constant tending.

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.

We need our Arts to teach us how to breathe

A story should be like a river, flowing and never stopping, your readers passengers on a boat, whirling downstream through constantly refreshing and changing scemery.

Hello!" He said hello and then said, "What are you up to now?" "I'm still crazy. The rain feels good. I love to walk in it. "I don't think I'd like that," he said. "You might if you tried." "I never have." She licked her lips. "Rain even tastes good." "What do you do, go around trying everything once?" he asked. "Sometimes twice.

How do you get so empty? Who takes it out of you?

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.

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.

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.

You don’t question Providence. If you can’t have the reality, a dream is just as good.

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.

It is good to renew one's wonder, said the philosopher. Space travel has again made children of us all.

Don’t try to write a novel. Write short stories and then figure out how to connect them.

I sometimes get up at night when I can't sleep and walk down into my library and open one of my books and read a paragraph and say, 'My God, did I write that?

Write a short story every week. It's not possible to write 52 bad short stories in a row.

Miraculously, smoke curled out of his own mouth, his nose, his ears, his eyes, as if his soul had been extinguished within his lungs at the very moment the sweet pumpkin gave up its incensed ghost.

There is no future for e-books, because they are not books. E-books smell like burned fuel.