Author of quotes: Ray Bradbury

Hatred is normal, right? And not only hatred... we never talk, but we don't want to cause suffering to the one who wronged us, even kill him?

I, like all aspiring writers, was convinced that the idea can be realized, if hitting her with full force, hitting her and punching. Of course, with this treatment a good idea just gonna lie down, roll over belly up, will direct the gaze into eternity and quietly gave up the Ghost.

I learned what was right and all others are wrong, when I was nine and I was in the fourth grade. In that year, there was Buck Rogers, and it was love at first sight. I collected newspaper clippings and went with them. Friends did not understand. Friends laughing. I broke off the comic buck Rogers. Month, I went to school absolutely dead and exhausted. One day I burst into tears and asked myself why I feel so bad and empty. And he himself and said: because of buck Rogers. He disappeared, and life was no longer worth it to live. My next thought was: they're not my friends - those who made me break a comic, and however, break in half and life - they are my enemies.
I went back to collecting buck Rogers. And since then live happily ever after. That began my career as a science fiction writer. I never listened to those who mocked my passion for space flight, circuses or gorillas. If something like this were to happen, I picked up your dinosaurs and leave the room.

He touched the spit. She shimmered like a Crescent moon. On the blade was carved the words: "My master is the master of the world". Then they still didn't say anything.

- You can't understand it.
- Can - said kirk. - This is the saddest thing.

And then, choking with sobs, again and again he swung his scythe and cut left and right, left and right, left and right. And another, and another, and another. Mowing down huge wedges in green wheat and ripe wheat, not choosing or caring, cursing, more cursing, convulsed with laughter, and the blade flew up, shining in the sun, and went down with a singing whistle!
Down!
The bombings rocked Moscow, London, Tokyo.
Spit flew up and down like crazy.
And lit ovens of Belsen and Buchenwald.
KOs sang, covered in crimson dew.
And grew mushrooms, spewing blinding sun on the Sands of Nevada, Hiroshima, Bikini, mushrooms grew higher and higher.
Wheat cried, shattering on the ground with green rain.
Korea, Indochina, Egypt. Worried India, flinch Asia, deep in the night woke up Africa...
And the blade continued to fly, to destroy, to cut with the rage of a man who has robbed and taken away so much that he had nothing to do with how he treats humankind.

- Look, he loves me. If I leave him, he kills himself.
- And if will not leave, he will kill you.

Sin is not below the skin to remove and so to dance, dressed only in bone.

We pressed her to the beautiful and noble the phenomena of life to come to terms with the horrors and misfortune, striking us directly, through family or friends or through Newspapers and television.

And what, you ask, teaches writing?
First, it reminds us that we are alive, that life is a privilege and a gift, not a right. If we are gifted with life, it is necessary to serve. Life demands something in return, because that gave us the great benefit of animacy.

So which is better - do not look at night
stealthily, like a Panther, a spark of truth?
Or find her burned and understand
what we must still look for her?

We appear in the works.
We have so much about yourself don't know
not yet the busy and idle living.
Meanwhile everyone inside is hid
big factory of unfinished business.

Nothing is lost, nothing goes unnoticed. If you wandered the vast expanses and dared to love silly things, you will be able to learn something from even the most primitive things tailored in life and set aside.

And let the art cannot, as we would like, to save us from war and privation, envy, greed, old age or death, it can at least give us the strength.