Oh God, the terrible tyranny of the majority. We all have our harps to play. And it's up to you to know with which ear you'll listen. - Ray Bradbury

We all have our harps to play. And it's up to you now to know with which ear you'll listen.

You grow ravenous. You run fevers. You know exhilarations. You can't sleep at night, because your beast-creature ideas want out and turn you in your bed. It is a grand way to live.

Oh, oh. Here he comes, Moses crossing a Black Sea of bile.

That country where it is always turning late in the year. That country where the hills are fog and the rivers are mist; where noons go quickly, dusks and twilights linger, and midnights stay. That country composed in the main of cellars, sub-cellars, coal-bins, closets, attics, and pantries faced away from the sun. That country whose people are autumn people, thinking only autumn thoughts. Whose people passing at night on the empty walks sound like rain.