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“No child, it is what you brought to be, you who play with strangers' lives, who even usurp the vestments of our dead, yet believe that the stain of death will not cling to you. The gods demanded only the old expired plantain but you cut down the sap-laden shoot to feed your pride.”

“he has taken his revenge … I have no mouth. And I must scream.
The End”

“In that instant, I felt terribly calm. Surrounded by madness, surrounded by hunger, surrounded by everything but death, I knew death was our only way out. AM had kept us alive, but there was a way to defeat him. Not total defeat, but at least peace. I would settle for that.”

“He was Earth, and we were the fruit of that Earth; and though he had eaten us, he would never digest us.”

“AM wasn't God, he was a machine. We had created him to think, but there was nothing it could do with that creativity. AM could not wander, AM could not wonder, AM could not belong. He could merely be. And so, with the innate loathing that all machines had always held for the weak, soft creatures who had built them, he had sought revenge.”

“AM said, very politely, in a pillar of stainless steel bearing bright neon lettering: AM said it with the sliding cold horror of a razor blade slicing my eyeball. AM said it with the shriek of babies being ground beneath blue-hot rollers. AM said it with the taste of maggoty pork. AM touched me in every way I had ever been touched, and devised new ways, at his leisure, there inside my mind.”

“It had only been a nervous reflex on their part—the laughing. But I knew it wasn't the relief a soldier
feels when the bullet hits the man next to him. I knew it wasn't a reflex. They hated me.”

“There was the smell of matted, wet fur in the cavern. There was the smell of charred wood. There was the smell of dusty velvet. There was the smell of
rotting orchids. There was the smell of sour milk. There was the smell of sulphur, of rancid butter, of oil slick, of grease, of chalk dust, of human scalps.”
Repetition here adds a sense of dread…

“I think, therefore I am..”
chills.

Very dark already

Lot of world-building dumping.

“As I understand it, the Holy Church teaches
that there are two worlds: the world of everything we can see and hear and touch, and another world, the spiritual world of heaven and hell.”

Don’t do me like this, where is there no “” for dialogue? 😭

بل إن نظرك إلى آثار الرحمة من آثار الرحمة! فلولا رحمته بك لما نظرت، ولما سمعت، ولما عقلت شيئًا!

‏﴿إني أخاف أن يمسك عذاب من الرحمن﴾

‏ثم إن عذاب الخلق إن عذبوا بعضهم هو محض ظلم، فجيء باسم الرحمن في هذا السياق حتى يَلفت نظر المؤمن أنّ عذاب اللّٰه ليس ظلمًا لعباده، فهو سبحانه منزّةٌ عن الظلم، بل هو عدل ويحاسبهم بما يستحقون.

Number one, as I said, quality of information. Number two: leisure to digest it. And number three: the right to carry out actions based on what we learn from the interaction of the first two.

"So now do you see why books are hated and feared? They show the pores in the face of life.”

“I don’t talk things, sir,” said Faber. “I talk the meaning of things. I sit here and know I’m alive.”

“Let's not quibble over individuals with memoriams. Forget them. Burn all, burn everything. Fire is bright and fire is clean."

They were given the new job, as custodians of our peace of mind, the focus of our understandable and rightful dread of being in-ferior; official censors, judges, and executors. That's you, Montag, and that's me."

He was a victim of concussion. When it was all over he felt like a man who had been thrown from a cliff, whirled in a centrifuge and spat out over a waterfall that fell and fell into emptiness and emptiness and never—quite—touched— bottom—never-never-quite—no not quite—touched-bot-tom... and you fell so fast you didn't touch the sides either ... never... quite... touched... anything.

How do you get so empty? He wondered. Who takes it out of you?

"That's why," said Montag, "I wouldn't want to be its next victim."
“Why? You got a guilty conscience about something?”

“That’s why,” said Montag, “I wouldn’t want to be it’s next victim.”

“For love casts out fear and gratitude can conquer pride.”

Here then, as I lay down the pen and proceed to seal up my confession, I bring the life of that unhappy Henry Jekyll to an end.

he would long ago have ruined himself in order to involve me in the ruin. But his love of me is wonderful; I go further: I, who sicken and freeze at the mere thought of him, when I recall the abjection and passion of this attachment, and when I know how he fears my power to cut him off by suicide, I find it in my heart to pity him.

The hatred of Hyde for Jekyll was of a different order. His terror of the gallows drove him continually to commit temporary suicide, and return to his subordinate station of a part instead of a person; but he loathed the necessity, he loathed the despondency into which Jekyll was now fallen, and he resented the dislike with which he was himself regarded.