linguabarno_-_fahrenheit_451

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ray bradbury fahrenheit 451 this one, with gratitude, is for don congdon. fahrenheit 451: the temperature at which book-paper catches fire and burns part i it was a pleasure to burn it was a special pleasure to see things eaten, to see things blackened and changed. with the brass nozzle in his fists, with this great python spitting its venomous kerosene upon the world, the blood pounded in his head, and his hands were the hands of some amazing conductor playing all the symphonies of blazing and burning to bring down the tatters and charcoal ruins of history. with his symbolic helmet numbered 451 on his stolid head, and his eyes all orange flame with the thought of what came next, he flicked the igniter and the house jumped up in a gorging fire that burned the evening sky red and yellow and black. he strode in a swarm of …

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reet toward the subway where the silent, air-propelled train slid soundlessly down its lubricated flue in the earth and let him out with a great puff of warm air an to the cream-tiled escalator rising to the suburb. whistling, he let the escalator waft him into the still night air. he walked toward the comer, thinking little at all about nothing in particular. before he reached the corner, however, he slowed as if a wind had sprung up from nowhere, as if someone had called his name. the last few nights he had had the most uncertain feelings about the sidewalk just around the corner here, moving in the starlight toward his house. he had felt that a moment before his making the turn, someone had been there. the air seemed charged with a special calm as if someone had waited there, quietly, and only a moment before he came, …

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, almost, of pale surprise; the dark eyes were so fixed to the world that no move escaped them. her dress was white and it whispered. he almost thought he heard the motion of her hands as she walked, and the infinitely small sound now, the white stir of her face turning when she discovered she was a moment away from a man who stood in the middle of the pavement waiting. the trees overhead made a great sound of letting down their dry rain. the girl stopped and looked as if she might pull back in surprise, but instead stood regarding montag with eyes so dark and shining and alive, that he felt he had said something quite wonderful. but he knew his mouth had only moved to say hello, and then when she seemed hypnotized by the salamander on his arm and the phoenix-disc on his chest, he …

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ere was only the girl walking with him now, her face bright as snow in the moonlight, and he knew she was working his questions around, seeking the best answers she could possibly give. "well," she said, "i'm seventeen and i'm crazy. my uncle says the two always go together. when people ask your age, he said, always say seventeen and insane. isn't this a nice time of night to walk? i like to smell things and look at things, and sometimes stay up all night, walking, and watch the sun rise." they walked on again in silence and finally she said, thoughtfully, "you know, i'm not afraid of you at all." he was surprised. "why should you be?" "so many people are. afraid of firemen, i mean. but you're just a man, after all..." he saw himself in her eyes, suspended in two shining drops of bright water, himself …

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g ago firemen put fires out instead of going to start them?" "no. houses. have always been fireproof, take my word for it." "strange. i heard once that a long time ago houses used to burn by accident and they needed firemen to stop the flames." he laughed. she glanced quickly over. "why are you laughing?" "i don't know." he started to laugh again and stopped "why?" "you laugh when i haven't been funny and you answer right off. you never stop to think what i've asked you." he stopped walking, "you are an odd one," he said, looking at her. "haven't you any respect?" "i don't mean to be insulting. it's just, i love to watch people too much, i guess." "well, doesn't this mean anything to you?" he tapped the numerals 451 stitched on his char-coloured sleeve. "yes," she whispered. she increased her pace. "have you ever watched …

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ray bradbury fahrenheit 451 this one, with gratitude, is for don congdon. fahrenheit 451: the temperature at which book-paper catches fire and burns part i it was a pleasure to burn it was a special pleasure to see things eaten, to see things blackened and changed. with the brass nozzle in his fists, with this great python spitting its venomous kerosene upon the world, the blood pounded in his head, and his hands were the hands of some amazing conductor playing all the symphonies of blazing and burning to bring down the tatters and charcoal ruins of history. with his symbolic helmet numbered 451 on his stolid head, and his eyes all orange flame with the thought of what came …

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