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“There was a silly damn bird called a phoenix back before Christ, every few hundred years he built a pyre and burnt himself up. He must have been the first cousin to Man. But every time he burnt himself up he sprang out of the ashes, he got himself born all over again. And it looks like we're doing the same thing, over and over, but we're got on damn thing the phoenix never had. We know the damn silly thing we just did. We know all the damn silly things we've done for a thousand years and as long as we know that and always have it around where we can see it, someday we'll stop making the goddamn funeral pyres and jumping in the middle of them. We pick up a few more people that remember every generation.”
― Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451

“Montag, falling flat, going down, saw or felt, or imagined he saw or felt the walls go dark in Millie's face, heard her screaming, because in the millionth part of time left, she saw her own face reflected there, in a mirror instead of a crystal ball, and it was such a wildly empty face, all by itself in the room, touching nothing, starved and eating of itself, that at last she recognized it was her own...”
― Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451

“Montag shook his head. He looked at a blank wall. The girl's face was there, really quite beautiful in memory: astonishing, in fact. She had a very thin face like the dial of a small clock seen faintly in a dark room in the middle of a night when you waken to see the time and see the clock telling you the hour and the minute and the second, with a white silence and a glowing, all certainty and knowing what it had to tell of the night passing swiftly on toward further darknesses, but moving also toward a new sun.”
― Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451

“...The girl who had known the weather and never been burnt by fireflies, the girl who had known what dandelions meant rubbed off on your chin.

Then, she would be gone.”
― Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451

“Eso es lo bueno de estar moribundo. Cuando no se tiene nada que perder, pueden correrse todos los riesgos.”
― Ray Bradbury

“Mystisch wird der Herbst,
wenn Worte leise die Sterne berühren
und wir die Nacht zurückfordern.

Der Tag verblast,
die Nacht kehrt heim,
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Der wahrhaftige Dichter,
zu seinen Lesern spricht,
Montag um sieben, so steht es geschrieben.”
― Terence Horn

“You think too many things,' said Montag, uneasily.”
― Ray Bradbury, Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451