The True, the Good, the Beautiful. They're just around the corner, in the next corridor; they're in the next book, the one you haven't read, or in the next stack, the one you haven't got to. But you'll get to it someday.
SPOİLER. aglayacagım.Alıntı
The End. The rest of the journal was blank. I slowly turned to the front cover and read that first sentence one more time.
I made the wrong choice.
Sonia had been wrong. My mom hadn’t sent the journal to the cemetery for me—she’d sent it for Howard. She’d wanted him to know what had really happened and tell him that she’d loved him all along. And then, even though she couldn’t go back and change their story, she’d done the next best thing.
She’d sent me.
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“Nice things don’t happen in storybooks,” Taryn says. “Or when they do happen, something bad happens next. Because otherwise the story would be boring and no one would read it.”
Every fireman, sooner or later, hits this. They only need understanding, to know how the wheels run. Need to know the history of our profession. They don’t feed it to rookies like they used to. Damn shame. (...) Only fire chiefs remember it now. (...) I'll let you in on it. (...)
When did it all start, you ask, this job of ours, how did it come about, where, when? Well, I'd say it really got started around about a thing called the Civil War. The fact is we didn’t get along well until photography came into its own. Then — motion pictures in the early Twentieth Century. Radio. Television. Things began to have mass. (...) And because they had mass, they became simpler. (...) Once, books appealed to a few people, here, there, everywhere. They could afford to be different. The world was roomy. But then the world got full of eyes and elbows and mouths. Double, triple, quadruple population. Films and radios, magazines, books leveled down to a sort of paste pudding norm, do you follow me? (...)
Books cut shorter. Condensations. Digests. Tabloids. Everything boils down to the gag, the snap ending. (...) Classics cut to fit fifteen-minute radio shows, then cut again to fill a two-minute book column, winding up at last as a ten or twelve-line dictionary resume. I exaggerate, of course. The dictionaries were for reference. But many were those whose sole knowledge of Hamlet (...) was a one-page digest in a book that claimed: now at last you can read all the classics; keep up with your neighbors. Do you see? Out of the nursery into the college and back to the nursery; there’s your intellectual pattern for the past five centuries or more. (...)
Speed up the film, Montag, quick. Click, Pic, Look, Eye, Now, Flick, Here, There, Swift, Pace, Up, Down, In, Out, Why, How, Who, What,
On the other hand, you have people like me, who aren't quite sure what they're going to be when they grow up, only as the twelve-year- old recommended-a list of things they'd like to learn about this year.
I recently came across a quote from Christopher Nolan-writer and director of films like Inception, Interstellar, and The Dark Knight-on finding a next project. "For me, it's all about trying new things," he said. "If you're going to write, you want to read a lot before you write, without any purpose." Of course, the purpose is to find something that stimulates you but that you couldn't have known to look for an inter- est you didn't know you had. I think I'll take that advice.
Poetry reading BoxerEdebiyat
“Well, don’t forget, we’ve got to give the crowd a run for its money,” he said. “We’ll fix it up between us how many rounds a fight should go. Now your next bout will be with the Flying Dutchman. Suppose you let it run the full fifteen and put him out in the last round. That will give you a chance to make a showing as well.”
“All right, Sam,” was the answer.
“It will be a test for you,” Stubener warned. “You may fail to put him out in that last round.”
“Watch me.” Pat paused to put weight to his promise, and picked up a volume of Longfellow. “If I don’t I’ll never read poetry again, and that’s going some.”
“You bet it is,” his manager proclaimed jubilantly, “though what you see in such stuff is beyond me.”
Pat sighed, but did not reply. In all his life he had found but one person who cared for poetry, and that had been the red-haired school teacher who scared him off into the woods.
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