Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451

I love the way that this man writes. Each word is weighted and placed so beautifully in the sentences that seem to have a rhythm both natural and metered like footsteps. Like feet that leave footprints in virgin snow, crunch, crunch, his words have imprinted a part of my mind, which had yet to be touched.

Aren't we all Guy Montag at times? Rudely awakened from our sense of reality and disturbed by our own faults and shortcomings? Somehow so keenly aware of how small and insignificant we are. All of a sudden knowing nothing and at the same time knowing only that singular fact. Lost and alienated. Isn't that just the human condition?

I hate the human condition.