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Ray Bradbury

Something Wicked This Way Comes

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Tinaцитирует2 года назад
Have a drink!?”

“I don’t need it,” said Halloway. “But someone inside me does.”

“Who?”

The boy I once was, thought Halloway, who runs like the leaves down the sidewalk autumn nights.

But he couldn’t say that.
Vikaцитирует6 месяцев назад
God, how we get our fingers in each other’s clay. That’s friendship, each playing the potter to see what shapes we can make of the other.
F45Iцитируетв прошлом году
Like all boys, they never walked anywhere, but named a goal and lit for it, scissors and elbows.
Tinaцитирует2 года назад
“It really does!” he cried, in soft amaze.

“What does?”

“Hair! I read it all my life. In scary stories, it stands on end! Mine’s doing it—now!”

“Gosh, Jim. So’s mine!”
Hanneцитирует2 месяца назад
And a mother who wanted him around so very much, he just had to get away,
Hanneцитирует2 месяца назад
Boys have never been known to go straight up to houses to ring bells to summon forth friends. They prefer to chunk dirt at clapboards, hurl acorns down roof shingles, or leave mysterious notes flapping from kites stranded on attic window sills.
Guadalupe Vazquezцитирует2 месяца назад
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 go when it dies? Boys, you got to be ready in every dialect with every shape and form to hex the St. Elmo’s fires, the balls of blue light that prowl the earth like sizzling cats.
Hanneцитирует2 месяца назад
They peered in at the merry-go-round which lay under a dry rattle and roar of wind-tumbled oak trees. Its horses, goats, antelopes, zebras, speared through their spines with brass javelins, hung contorted as in a death rictus, asking mercy with their fright-colored eyes, seeking revenge with their panic-colored teeth.
Vikaцитирует6 месяцев назад
Dad winked at Will. Will winked back. They stood now, a boy with corn-colored hair and a man with moon-white hair, a boy with a summer-apple, a man with a winter-apple face. Dad, Dad, thought Will, why, why, he looks… like me in a smashed mirror!
Hanneцитирует7 месяцев назад
holding a book but reading the empty spaces
F45Iцитируетв прошлом году
And the first boy, with hair as blond-white as milk thistle, shut up one eye, tilted his head, and looked at the salesman with a single eye as open, bright and clear as a drop of summer rain.
F45Iцитируетв прошлом году
Wind rattled the empty trees. Sunlight, breaking through a small rift in the clouds, minted a last few oak leaves all gold.
Elleцитируетв прошлом году
Well, what tongue does the wind talk? What nationality is a storm? What country do rains come from? What color is lightning?
Kasper Enevold Nielsenцитируетв прошлом году
Man is in love, and loves what vanishes.

—W.B. YEATS

They sleep not, except they have done mischief; And their sleep is taken away, unless they cause some to fall. For they eat the bread of wickedness, And drink the wine of violence.

—Proverbs 4:16-17
Tinaцитирует2 года назад
“It was the ‘Funeral March’! Played backwards!”

“Which ‘Funeral March’?”

“Which! Jim, Chopin only wrote one tune! The ‘Funeral March’!”
Mau baca buku duluцитирует4 года назад
A stranger is shot in the street, you hardly move to help. But if, half an hour before, you spent just ten minutes with the fellow and knew a little about him and his family, you might just jump in front of his killer and try to stop it. Really knowing is good. Not knowing, or refusing to know, is bad, or amoral, at least. You can’t act if you don’t know. Acting without knowing takes you right off the cliff.
Mau baca buku duluцитирует4 года назад
“Death makes everything else sad. But death itself only scares. If there wasn’t death, all the other things wouldn’t get tainted.”
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