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451 Fahrenheit
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
fireflies
.
He
wanted
above
all
,
like
the
old
joke
,
to
shove
a
marshmallow
on
a
stick
in
the
furnace
,
while
the
flapping
pigeon-winged
books
died
on
the
porch
and
lawn
of
the
house
.
While
the
books
went
up
in
sparkling
whirls
and
blew
away
on
a
wind
turned
dark
with
burning
.
Montag
grinned
the
fierce
grin
of
all
men
singed
and
driven
back
by
flame
.
He
knew
that
when
he
returned
to
the
firehouse
,
he
might
wink
at
himself
,
a
minstrel
man
,
burnt
-
corked
,
in
the
mirror
.
Later
,
going
to
sleep
,
he
would
feel
the
fiery
smile
still
gripped
by
his
face
muscles
,
in
the
dark
.
It
never
went
away
,
that
smile
,
it
never
ever
went
away
,
as
long
as
he
remembered
.
He
hung
up
his
black-beetle-coloured
helmet
and
shined
it
,
he
hung
his
flameproof
jacket
neatly
;
he
showered
luxuriously
,
and
then
,
whistling
,
hands
in
pockets
,
walked
across
the
upper
floor
of
the
fire
station
and
fell
down
the
hole
.
At
the
last
moment
,
when
disaster
seemed
positive
,
he
pulled
his
hands
from
his
pockets
and
broke
his
fall
by
grasping
the
golden
pole
.
He
slid
to
a
squeaking
halt
,
the
heels
one
inch
from
the
concrete
floor
downstairs
.
He
walked
out
of
the
fire
station
and
along
the
midnight
street
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
,
simply
turned
to
a
shadow
and
let
him
through
.
Perhaps
his
nose
detected
a
faint
perfume
,
perhaps
the
skin
on
the
backs
of
his
hands
,
on
his
face
,
felt
the
temperature
rise
at
this
one
spot
where
a
person
's
standing
might
raise
the
immediate
atmosphere
ten
degrees
for
an
instant
.
There
was
no
understanding
it
.
Each
time
he
made
the
turn
,
he
saw
only
the
white
,
unused
,
buckling
sidewalk
,
with
perhaps
,
on
one
night
,
something
vanishing
swiftly
across
a
lawn
before
he
could
focus
his
eyes
or
speak
.
But
now
,
tonight
,
he
slowed
almost
to
a
stop
.
His
inner
mind
,
reaching
out
to
turn
the
corner
for
him
,
had
heard
the
faintest
whisper
.
Breathing
?
Or
was
the
atmosphere
compressed
merely
by
someone
standing
very
quietly
there
,
waiting
?
He
turned
the
corner
.
The
autumn
leaves
blew
over
the
moonlit
pavement
in
such
a
way
as
to
make
the
girl
who
was
moving
there
seem
fixed
to
a
sliding
walk
,
letting
the
motion
of
the
wind
and
the
leaves
carry
her
forward
.
Her
head
was
half
bent
to
watch
her
shoes
stir
the
circling
leaves
.
Her
face
was
slender
and
milk-white
,
and
in
it
was
a
kind
of
gentle
hunger
that
touched
over
everything
with
tireless
curiosity
.
It
was
a
look
,
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
spoke
again
.
"
Of
course
,
"
he
said
,
"
you
're
a
new
neighbour
,
are
n't
you
?
"
