• “Do you consider me your girlfriend?” I ask as he sits down.
    “Yeah. I mean, it just seems a little silly to call you that,” he says.
    “Silly?” I pick at my fingernails, a bad habit I have yet to kick.
    “You are more to me than some adolescent title.”
    Anna Todd
    Gallery Books - kindle
  • Şşşt lan bana bak gudubet
    Pıt pıt mı atıyor yüreğin?
    Öyle alelacele davranmasan
    Laflarını yatıştırsan ya!
    Çaresiz, koşarım kovalarım.
    Elimde sopa, elimde ölümün.

    Gerçekten üzgünüm, erkeğin egemenliği
    Bozduysa Doğa’nın toplumsal birliğini
    Haklı kıldıysa hasta ruhumu.
    Benim garip, ölümlü, dünyalı yoldaşım,
    Üzgünüm donduruyorsam kanını.

    Kuşkum yok, çalarsın benden,
    Ne olmuş? Seni küçük gudubet, yaşayasın!
    Bir demet başağım var, birini almışsın..
    Eksiltecek mi beni? Yeter de artar gerisi.
    Umrumda değil ötesi…

    Senin de küçük evin darmadağın!
    Cılız duvarları, rüzgar süzülür içeri!
    Nasıl etmeli, yeni bir ev dikmeli,
    Yeşil yapraklarla bezemeli!
    Sert eser aralık yeli,
    İçine işler, titretir seni!

    Gördün heba olan çorak tarlaları,
    Koşar adım gelirken kış,
    Soğuğa siperdi burası, mutluydun.
    Yerleşmek istiyordun.
    Gaddar bir sopa gümbürtüyle
    Hücrene girmeden evvel!

    Şu ufak yaprak ve anız yığını için
    Günlerce kemirdin, taşıdın durdun!
    Kaldın şimdi açıkta, emeklerin boşuna
    Geride ne bir ev, ne yatacak bir yer.
    Katlanmak zor kışa, kara,
    ve donduran soğuğa.

    Merak etme minik Fare
    Bir sen değilsin hayalleri suya düşen.
    Fareler ve insanların en sıkı tasarıları dahi
    Sıklıkla ters gider,
    ve vadedilen mutluluktan geriye
    Acı ve keder kalır.

    Yine de şanslı sayılırsın bana göre!
    Hep burada, şimdiki zamandasın:
    Ama, of! Gözlerim geçmişe bakar benim,
    Kaçan fırsatları arar,
    Ve geleceğe bakarım, göremesem de daha,
    Tahminler yapar, korkarım!

    Robert Burns, 1785

    Wee, sleekit, cow’rin, tim’rous beastie,
    O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!
    Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
    Wi’ bickering brattle!
    I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee,
    Wi’ murd’ring pattle!

    I’m truly sorry man’s dominion,
    Has broken nature’s social union,
    An’ justifies that ill opinion,
    Which makes thee startle
    At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
    An’ fellow-mortal!

    I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;
    What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
    A daimen icker in a thrave
    ‘S a sma’ request;
    I’ll get a blessin wi’ the lave,
    An’ never miss’t!

    Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
    It’s silly wa’s the win’s are strewin!
    An’ naething, now, to big a new ane,
    O’ foggage green!
    An’ bleak December’s winds ensuin,
    Baith snell an’ keen!

    Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste,
    An’ weary winter comin fast,
    An’ cozie here, beneath the blast,
    Thou thought to dwell-
    Till crash! the cruel coulter past
    Out thro’ thy cell.

    Thy wee bit heap o’ leaves an’ stibble,
    Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
    Now thou’s turn’d out, for a’ thy trouble,
    But house or hald,
    To thole the winter’s sleety dribble,
    An’ cranreuch cauld!

    But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
    In proving foresight may be vain;
    The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men
    Gang aft agley,
    An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,
    For promis’d joy!

    Still thou art blest, compar’d wi’ me
    The present only toucheth thee:
    But, Och! I backward cast my e’e.
    On prospects drear!
    An’ forward, tho’ I canna see,
    I guess an’ fear!
    Robert Burns
  • Ren has never been a boy. Even when he was younger, he was braver, stronger, more attractive than any of the boys who think they’re men but are still just silly little children. He carries this melancholy melody inside him that just makes me want to protect him and have him protect me at the same time. When he touches me, it’s like fire. When he kisses me, it’s like drowning. When he pushes me down and thrusts inside me, it’s like falling into space, trusting him to never let you go, all the while hoping he will let you fall and then fall right along with you.
  • They were careless people, Tom and Daisy - they smashed up things and creatures and then retreated back into their money or their vast carelessness, or whatever it was that kept them together, and let other people clean up the mess they had made...
    I shook hands with him; it seemed silly not to, for I felt suddenly as though I were talking to a child. Then he went into the jewelry store to buy a pearl necklace -or perhaps only a pair of cuff buttons - rid of my provincial squeamishness for ever.
  • The book starts with this sentence:

    "It was a pleasure to burn!"
    And I asked these questions;
    Can you think of a more effective means of control?
    Can you think of a more effective means of Well, me neither .
    I didn't intend to start reading it. I really didn't. Somehow it seduced me into it.WOW AND I THOUGHT OKAY THEN LETS DO THIS! I glanced at the first page and before I knew it, it was 1:00 in the morning and I was halfway through with the thing. It's really good! No wonder it's a modern classic.

    The burning of books is such an effective tool, so the message of Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451 is scarily real; if society’s wisdom could be taken away then so could their freedom; if knowledge was burnt then the people would be left in a complete state of utter innocent ignorance. That way they could be told anything and no know different. If all books were burnt then they are just sheep to be lead. To make it worse the men who do it enjoy it.
    Montag's inner emotional and moral journey from a character who burns books gleefully and with a smile on his face to someone who is willing to risk his career, his marriage, his house, and eventually his life for the sake of books is extremely compelling. That this man, product of a culture that devalues reading and values easy, thoughtless entertainments designed to deaden the mind and prevent serious thought, could come to find literature so essential that he would kill for it...! Something about that really spoke to me.
    It raises the question: why? What is it about books, about poetry, about literature that is so essential to us? There is no doubt in my mind that it is essential, if not for all individuals (although I find it hard to imagine life without books, I know there are some people who don't read for pleasure, bizarre as that seems to me), then for society. Why should that be? Books don't contain any hard-and-fast answers to all of life's questions. They might contain great philosophical Truths, but only subjectively so -- there will always be someone who will argue and disagree with whatever someone else says. What one says, another contradicts. So what, then, is their allure? What is it that made Mildred's silly friend start to weep when Montag read the poem "Dover Beach" aloud to her? Where does the power of literature come from?
    I think the reason that books are so important to our lives and to the health of our society -- of any society -- is not because they give us answers, but because they make us ask the questions. Books -- good books, the books that stay with you for years after you read them, the books that change your view of the world or your way of thinking -- aren't easy. They aren't facile. They aren't about surface; they're about depth. They are, quite literally, thought-provoking. They require complexity of thought. They require effort on the part of the reader. You get out of a book what you put into the reading of it, and therefore books satisfy in a way that other types of entertainment do not.
    And they aren't mass-produced. They are individual, unique, gloriously singular. They are each an island, much-needed refuges from an increasingly homogeneous culture.

    I enjoyed Fahrenheit 451, but this is the thing that scared me the most. This book gave me 1984 vibes where you can only know what the government wants you to. How terrifying is that? Being able to learn whatever you want or read simple stories is a simple privilege that should be taken advantage of. Can you imagine a world where you can’t learn? In this story, burning is done for the a political agenda. Knowing about history could provoke revolution in the future. In theory, it’s a smart idea for a dictator but utterly terrifying.
    All in all, Fahrenheit challenged me and made me think, stimulated me intellectually. We could all do with a bit of intellectual stimulation now and then; it makes life much more fulfilling.
    Though seriously, if someone came to burn my books I’d kill them :)
  • ''It was silly of us to look for qualities in each other that we never had.''
  • But this earthquake fancy terrified the Greeks, and their terror has terrified all mankind out of their natural love of size, vitality, variety, energy, ugliness. Nature intended every human face, so long as it was forcible, individual, and expressive, to be regarded as distinct from all others, as a poplar is distinct from an oak, and an apple-tree from a willow. But what the Dutch gardeners did for trees the Greeks did for the human form; they lopped away its living and sprawling features to give it a certain academic shape; they hacked off noses and pared down chins with a ghastly horticultural calm. And they have really succeeded so far as to make us call some of the most powerful and endearing faces ugly, and some of the most silly and repulsive faces beautiful.