If we have to burn.

I like Fahrenheit 451 and Ray Bradbury and the way his writing can knock the air from your chest and tighten your throat, chasing you. I like it when his words scream at you from the page with no prettiness or patience for a slow-moving mind. They wrap you up in tumbling lines of text and refuse to let you go until you can no longer breathe. And once the words have got you lying flat on the ground with useless legs and burning chest, he offers you a glass of something cold and tells you to look at the world again and see that it can be sort of wonderful. I like it a lot.

"A shotgun blast went off in his leg every time he put it down and he thought, you're a fool, a damn fool, an awful fool, an idiot, an awful idiot, a damn idiot, and a fool, a damn fool; look at the mess and where's the mop, look at the mess and what do you do? Pride, dammit, and temper, and you've junked it all, at the very start you vomit on everyone and on yourself. But everything at once, but everything one on top of another, Beatty, the women, Mildred, Clarisse, everything. No excuse, though, no excuse. A fool, a damn fool, go give yourself up!
No, we'll save what we can, we'll do what there is left to do. If we have to burn, let's take a few more with us. Here!"

And also, this reminded me that caring about things is worth it:

“If we listened to our intellect we’d never have a love affair. We’d never have a friendship. We’d never go in business because we’d be cynical: 'It’s gonna go wrong.' Or 'She’s going to hurt me...' Well, that’s nonsense. You’re going to miss life. You’ve got to jump off the cliff all the time and build your wings on the way down.”

And... This is exactly how I feel about death:

“Death doesn’t exist. It never did, it never will. But we’ve drawn so many pictures of it, so many years, trying to pin it down, comprehend it, we’ve got to thinking of it as an entity, strangely alive and greedy. All it is, however, is a stopped watch, a loss, an end, a darkness. Nothing.”