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“It’s like your kisses make my scars fade” wrap it up I have things to do

Oh brotherrrr here we go again

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Can we cut the preaching and get on with it

Oh BROTHER. wrap it up guys

It is not the least reason why we should honor as well as love the dog of our own life, and the dog down the street, and all the dogs not yet born. What would the world be like without music or rivers or the green and tender grass? What would this world be like without dogs?

Only unleashed dogs can do that. They are a kind of poetry themselves when they are devoted not only to us but to the wet night, to the moon and the rabbit-smell in the grass and their own bodies leaping forward.

Well, see? Just keep on liking things.
And praying.
"I don't know anything about that."
Yes you do. Every time you wake up and love your life and the world, you're praying, my dear boy. I'm sure of it.

But remember, you can't fix everything in the world for everybody.
"However," said Ricky, "you can't do anything at all unless you begin.

Be prepared. A dog is adorable and noble.
A dog is a true and loving friend. A dog is also a hedonist.

This is Sammy's story. But I also think there are one or two poems in it somewhere. Maybe it's what life was like in this dear town years ago, and how a lot of us miss it.
Or maybe it's about the wonderful things that may happen if
you break the ropes that are holding you.

'Stuff your eyes with wonder, he said, live as if you'd drop dead in ten sec-onds. See the world. It's more fantastic than any dream made or paid for in factories. Ask no guaran-tees, ask for no security, there never was such an ani-mal. And if there were, it would be related to the Beat sloth which hangs upside down in a tree all day every day, sleeping its life away.

"Grandfather's been dead for all these years, but if you lifted my skull, by God, in the convolutions of my brain you'd find the big ridges of his thumbprint. He touched me. As I said earlier, he was a sculptor. 'I hate a Roman named Status Quo!' he said to me.

Montage turned and glanced back.
What did you give to the city, Montag?
Ashes.
What did the others give to each other?
Nothingness.

One of them had to stop burning. The sun wouldn't, certainly. So it looked as if it had to be Mon-tag and the people he had worked with until a few short hours ago. Somewhere the saving and putting away had to begin again and someone had to do the saving and keeping, one way or another, in books, in records, in people's heads, any way at all so long as it was safe

he knew why he must never burn again in his life.
The sun burnt every day. It burnt Time. The world rushed in a circle and turned on its axis and time was busy burning the years and the people anyway, without any help from him. So if he burnt things with the firemen and the sun burnt Time, that meant that everything burnt!

How do you get so empty? he wondered. Who takes it out of you? And that awful flower the other day, the dandelion! It had summed up everything, hadn't it? "What a shame! You're not in love with anyone!" And why not?

And he remembered thinking then that if she died, he was certain he wouldn't cry. For it would be the dying of an unknown, a street face, a newspaper image, and it was suddenly so very wrong that he had begun to cry, not at death but at the thought of not crying at death, a silly empty man near a silly empty woman, while the hungry snake made her still more empty.

the reader must be told at the outset, to avoid useless confusion, on whose evidence he can absolutely rely. That is to say, it must be assumed that somebody is telling the truth - else, there is no legitimate mystery and, in fact, no story at all.

Touchstone the sassy clown

We that are true lovers run into strange capers ; but as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature in love mortal in folly.

in the gentle condition of blood you should so know me. The courtesy of nations allows you my better in that you are the first born, but the same tradition takes not away my blood were there twenty brothers betwixt us. I have as much of my father in me as you.

In the end she was no more than a music box that was slightly out of tune.
I ask you:
—What is the weight of light?

As soon as you discover the truth it's already gone: the moment passed. I ask: what is?
Reply: it's not.
But do not mourn the dead: they know what they are doing.

Her effort to live seemed like something that, if shed never felt it, virgin that she was, she nevertheless intuited, because only now was she understanding that a woman is born a woman from the very first cry. A woman's destiny is to be a woman.(...)Yes, painful and such a difficult reflowering that she used for it her body and the other thing you call a soul and I call — what?

I could leave her lying on the street and simply not finish the story. But no: I'll go on to where the air runs out, I'll go to where the great gale leaps away howl-ing, I'll go to where the void begins to curve, I'll go where my breath takes me. Does my breath deliver me to God? I am so pure that I know nothing. I only know one thing: I don't need to pity God. Or do I?