“Alone, what did Bloom feel?The cold of interstellar space, thousands of degrees below freezing point or the absolute zero of Fahrenheit, Centigrade or Réaumur: the incipient intimations of proximate dawn.”

“If it’s zero degrees outside today and it’s supposed to be twice as cold tomorrow, how cold is it going to be?”

“The trouble with him was that he was without imagination. He was quick and alert in the things of life, but only in the things, and not in the significances. Fifty degrees below zero meant eighty-odd degrees of frost. Such fact impressed him as being cold and uncomfortable, and that was all. It did not lead him to meditate upon his frailty as a creature of temperature, and upon man's frailty in general, able only to live within certain narrow limits of heat and cold; and from there on it did not lead him to the conjectural field of immortality and man's place in the universe.”

“Did he know she could barely think, let alone speak, for awareness of proximity of his fingers?Of course he knew. He was a rake. This is what he did.”

“[U]se extreme caution, and please remember that 451 degrees Fahrenheit is more than just a book a title....”

“Scrape the surface of language, and you will behold interstellar space and the skin that encloses it.”