No, no,” he said. “It was a good question. It’s been a long time since anyone cared enough to ask. A good question.
— Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451

takeafuckingsh0wer:

NO SIR I DO NOT BITE MY THUMB AT YOU SIR BUT I BITE MY THUMB SIR

Reblogged from white knuckles
Don’t ask for guarantees. And don’t look to be saved in any one thing, person, machine, or library. Do your own bit of saving, and if you drown, at least die knowing you were heading for shore.
— Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451
Reblogged from

“An early draft of the novel was eaten by Steinbeck’s dog.” - Wikipedia

WHAT THE ACTUAL-

Why the FUCK do people want to censor literature for VULGARITY????? Please instead censor poor writing or negative influence e.g. books that encourage poor character with neither realism, insight nor humour e.g. twilight. (okay that’s just an example but seriously. you get my point right. I mean, shit, fuck, cunt, whatever, is afterall just a word and in actuality inescapably part of LIFE because WORDS MEAN THINGS. Writers don’t just choose these words for nothing.)

And why do parents want to censor books because of themes like DEATH. I mean do you keep your child in some safe haven and protect them from the brutality of the real world by coaxing them that “all humans are immortal, grandma and grandpa will always be here and you don’t have to be appreciative for anything or anyone and you can waste all the time you want here!”

Urgh so angry. No wait stupid people don’t get me angry. I have for them only contempt and disdain.

mischiefmanagedalways:

missvdb:

If Dr. Seuss Books Were Titled According to Their Subtexts

FAO Sarah…

Brilliant.

devouringworlds:

The Old Man and the Sea

After the boy started crying I started crying and I don’t even know why.

She broke into a loping run across the grass and thought she could go on all night, knifing through the silky air, sprung forwards by the steely coil of the hard ground under her feet, and by the way darkness doubled the impression of speed. She had dreams in which she ran like this, then tilted forward, spread her arms and, yielding to faith - the only difficult part, but easy enough in sleep - left the ground by simply stepping off it, and swooped low over hedges and gates and roofs, then hurtled upwards and hovered exultantly below the cloud base, above the fields, before diving down again. She sensed now how this might be achieved, through desire alone; the world she ran through loved her and would give her what she wanted and would let it happen. And then, when it did, she would describe it. Wasn’t writing a kind of soaring, an achievable form of flight, of fancy, of the imagination?
Reblogged from Death, by Exile.
Richard Mansfield was an actor in London whose onstage transformation from Dr Jekyll to Mr Hyde in the autumn of 1888 was so terrifying, theater-goers were convinced that Jack the Ripper himself was performing.

Richard Mansfield was an actor in London whose onstage transformation from Dr Jekyll to Mr Hyde in the autumn of 1888 was so terrifying, theater-goers were convinced that Jack the Ripper himself was performing.

Tags: literature
Legolas stirred in his boat. ‘Nay, time does not tarry ever,’ he said; ‘but change and growth is not in all things and places alike. For the Elves the world moves, and it moves both very swift and very slow. Swift, because they themselves change little, and all else fleets by: it is a grief to them. Slow, because they do not count the running years, not for themselves. The passing seasons are but ripples ever repeated in the long long stream. Yet beneath the Sun all things must wear to an end at last.’
— J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring (via knockturn)