Fahrenheit451_240706_195828.pdf

lay like the track of some evil snail. On the front porch where she had come to weigh them quietly with her eyes, her quietness a condemnation, the woman stood motionless. Beatty flicked his fingers to spark the kerosene. He was too late. Montag gasped. The woman on the porch reached ou...

lay like the track of some evil snail. On the front porch where she had come to weigh them quietly with her eyes, her quietness a condemnation, the woman stood motionless. Beatty flicked his fingers to spark the kerosene. He was too late. Montag gasped. The woman on the porch reached out with contempt to them all, and struck the kitchen match against the railing. People ran out of houses all down the street. ººº They said nothing on their way back to the firehouse. Nobody looked at anyone else. Montag sat in the front seat with Beatty and Black. They did not even smoke their pipes. They sat there looking out the front of the great Salamander as they turned a corner and went silently on. “Master Ridley,” said Montag a last. “What?” said Beatty. “She said, ‘Master Ridley.’ She said some crazy thing when we came in the door. ‘Play the man,’ she said, ‘Master Ridley.’ Something, something, something.” “ ‘We shall this day light such a candle, by God’s grace, in England, as I trust shall never be put out,’ ” said Beatty. Stoneman glanced over at the Captain, as did Montag, startled. Beatty rubbed his chin. “A man named Latimer said that to a man named Nicholas Ridley, as they were being burnt alive at Oxford, for heresy, on October 16, 1555.”  Montag and Stoneman went back to looking at the street as it moved under the engine wheels. “I’m full of bits and pieces,” said Beatty. “Most fire captains have to be. Sometimes I surprise myself. Watch it, Stoneman!” Stoneman braked the truck. “Damn!” said Beatty. “You’ve gone right by the corner where we turn for the firehouse.” ººº “Who is it?” “Who would it be?” said Montag, leaning back against the closed door in the dark. His wife said, at last, “Well, put on the light.” “I don’t want the light.” “Come to bed.” He heard her roll impatiently; the bedsprings squealed. “Are you drunk?” she said. So it was the hand that started it all. He felt one hand and then the other work his coat free and let it slump to the floor. He held his pants out into an abyss and let them fall into darkness. His hands had been infected, and soon it would be his arms. He could feel the poison working up his wrists and into his elbows and his shoulders, and then the jump-over from shoulder blade to shoulder blade like a spark leaping a gap. His hands were ravenous. And his eyes were beginning to feel hunger, as if they must look at something, anything, everything. His wife said, “What are you doing?”  He balanced in space with the book in his sweating cold fingers. A minute later she said, “Well, just don’t stand there in the middle of the floor.” He made a small sound. “What?” she asked. He made more soft sounds. He stumbled toward the bed and shoved the book clumsily under the cold pillow. He fell into bed and his wife cried out, startled. He lay far across the room from her, on a winter island separated by an empty sea. She talked to him for what seemed a long while and she talked about this and she talked about that and it was only words, like the words he had heard once in a nursery at a friend’s house, a two-year-old child building word patterns, talking jargon, making pretty sounds in the air. But Montag said nothing and after a long while when he only made the small sounds, he felt her move in the room and come to his bed and stand over him and put her hand down to feel his cheek. He knew that when she pulled her hand away from his face it was wet. ººº Late in the night he looked over at Mildred. She was awake. There was a tiny dance of melody in the air, her Seashell was tamped in her ear again and she was listening to far people in far places, her eyes wide and staring at the fathoms of blackness above her in the ceiling. Wasn’t there an old joke about the wife who talked so much on the telephone that her desperate husband ran out to the nearest store and telephoned her to ask what was for dinner? Well, then, why didn’t he buy himself an audio-Seashell broadcasting station and talk to his wife late at night, murmur, whisper, shout, scream, yell. But what would he whisper, what would he yell? What could he say? And suddenly she was so strange he couldn’t believe he knew her at all. He was in someone else’s house, like those other jokes people told of the gentleman, drunk, coming home late late at night, unlocking the wrong door, entering a wrong room, and bedding with a stranger and getting up early and going to work and neither of them the wiser. “Millie... ?” he whispered. “What?” “I didn’t mean to startle you. What I want to know is...” “Well?” “When did we meet? And where?” “When did we meet for what?” she asked. “I mean—originally.” He knew she must be frowning in the dark. He clarified it. “The first time we ever met, where was it, and when?” “Why, it was at—” She stopped. “I don’t know,” she said. He was cold. “Can’t you remember?” “It’s been so long.” “Only ten years, that’s all, only ten!” “Don’t get excited, I’m trying to think.” She laughed an odd little laugh that went up and up. “Funny, how funny, not to remember where or when you met your husband or wife.”  He lay massaging his eyes, his brow, and the back of his neck, slowly. He held both hands over his eyes and applied a steady pressure there as if to crush memory into place. It was suddenly more important than any other thing in a lifetime that he know where he had met Mildred. “It doesn’t matter.” She was up, in the bathroom now, and he heard the water running, and the swallowing sound she made. “No, I guess not,” he said. He tried to count how many times she swallowed and he thought of the visit from the two zinc-oxide-faced men with the cigarettes in their straight-lined mouths and the Electronic-Eyed Snake winding down into the layer upon layer of night and stone and stagnant spring water, and he wanted to call out to her, how many have you taken tonight! the capsules! how many will you take later and not know? and so on, every hour! or maybe not tonight, tomorrow night! And me not sleeping tonight or tomorrow night or any night for a long while, now that this has started. And he thought of her lying on the bed with the two technicians standing straight over her, not bent with concern, but only standing straight, arms folded. And he remembered thinking then that if she died, he was certain he wouldn’t cry. For it would be the dying of an unknown, a street face, a newspaper image, and it was suddenly so very wrong that he had begun to cry, not at death but at the thought of not crying at death, a silly empty man near a silly empty woman, while the hungry snake made her still more empty. How do you get so empty? he wondered. Who takes it out of you? And that awful flower the other day, the dandelion! It had summed up everything, hadn’t it? “What a shame! You’re not in love with anyone!” And why not?  Well, wasn’t there a wall between him and Mildred, when you came down to it? Literally not just one wall but, so far, three! And expensive, too! And the uncles, the aunts, the cousins, the nieces, the nephews, that lived in those walls, the gibbering pack of tree-apes that said nothing, nothing, nothing and said it loud, loud, loud. He had taken to calling them relatives from the very first. “How’s Uncle Louis today?” “Who?” “And Aunt Maude?” The most significant memory he had of Mildred, really, was of a little girl in a forest without trees (how odd!) or rather a little girl lost on a plateau where there used to be trees (you could feel the memory of their shapes all about) sitting in the center of the “living room.” The living room; what a good job of labeling that was now. No matter when he came in, the walls were always talking to Mildred. “Something must be done!” “Yes, something must be done!” “Well, let’s not stand and talk!” “Let’s do it!” “I’m so mad I could spit!” What was it all about? Mildred couldn’t say. Who was mad at whom? Mildred didn’t quite know. What were they going to do? Well, said Mildred, wait around and see. He had waited around to see. A great thunderstorm of sound gushed from the walls. Music bombarded him at such an immense volume that his bones were almost shaken from their tendons; he felt his jaw vibrate, his eyes wobble in his head. He was a victim of concussion. When it was all over he felt like a man who had been thrown from a cliff, whirled in a centrifuge and spat out over a waterfall that fell and fell into emptiness and emptiness and never—quite—touched—bottom—never—never—quite—no not quite—touched—bottom... and you fell so fast you didn’t touch the sides either... never... quite... touched... anything. The thunder faded. The music died. “There,” said Mildred. And it was indeed remarkable. Something had happened. Even though the people in the walls of the room had barely moved, and nothing had really been settled, you had the impression that someone had turned on a washing machine or sucked you up in a gigantic vacuum. You drowned in music and pure cacophony. He came out of the room sweating and on the point of collapse. Behind him, Mildred sat in her chair and the voices went on again: “Well, everything will be all right now,” said an “aunt.” “Oh, don’t be too sure,” said a “cousin.” “Now, don’t get angry!” “Who’s angry?” “You are!” “I am?” “You’re mad!” “Why would I be mad!” “Because!” “That’s all very well,” cried Montag, “but what are they mad about? Who are these people? Who’s that man and who’s that woman? Are they husband and wife, are they divorced, engaged, what? Good God, nothing’s connected up.” “They—” said Mildred—“well, they—they had this fight, you see. They certainly fight a lot. You should listen. I think they’re married. Yes, they’re married. Why?” And if it was not the three walls soon to be four walls and the dream complete, then it was the open car and Mildred driving a hundred miles an hour across town, he shouting at her and she shouting back and both trying to hear what was said, but hearing only the scream of the car. “At least keep it down to the minimum!” he yelled. “What?” she cried. “Keep it down to fifty-five, the minimum!” he shouted. “The what?” she shrieked. “Speed!” he shouted. And she pushed it up to one hundred and five miles an hour and tore the breath from his mouth. When they stepped out of the car, she had the Seashells stuffed in her ears. Silence. Only the wind blowing softly. “Mildred.” He stirred in bed. He reached over and pulled the tiny musical insect out of her ear. “Mildred. Mildred?” “Yes.” Her voice was faint. He felt he was one of the creatures electronically inserted between the slots of the phono-color walls, speaking, but the speech not piercing the crystal barrier. He could only pantomime, hoping she would turn his way and see him. They could not touch through the glass. “Mildred, do you know that girl I was telling you about?” “What girl?” She was almost asleep. “The girl next door.” “What girl next door?” “You know, the high-school girl. Clarisse, her name is.” “Oh, yes,” said his wife.  “I haven’t seen her for a few days—four days to be exact. Have you seen her?” “No.” “I’ve meant to talk to you about her. Strange.” “Oh, I know the one you mean.” “I thought you would.” “Her,” said Mildred in the dark room. “What about her?” asked Montag. “I meant to tell you. Forgot. Forgot.” “Tell me now. What is it?” “I think she’s gone.” “Gone?” “Whole family moved out somewhere. But she’s gone for good. I think she’s dead.” “We couldn’t be talking about the same girl.” “No. The same girl. McClellan. McClellan. Run over by a car. Four days ago. I’m not sure. But I think she’s dead. The family moved out anyway. I don’t know. But I think she’s dead.” “You’re not sure of it!” “No, not sure. Pretty sure.” “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” “Forgot.” “Four days ago!” “I forgot all about it.” “Four days ago,” he said, quietly, lying there.  They lay there in the dark room not moving, either of them. “Good night,” she said. He heard a faint rustle. Her hand moved. The electric thimble moved like a praying mantis on the pillow, touched by her hand. Now it was in her ear again, humming. He listened and his wife was singing under her breath. Outside the house, a shadow moved, an autumn wind rose up and faded away. But there was something else in the silence that he heard. It was like a breath exhaled upon the window. It was like a faint drift of greenish luminescent smoke, the motion of a single huge October leaf blowing across the lawn and away. The Hound, he thought. It’s out there tonight. It’s out there now. If I opened the window... He did not open the window. ººº He had chills and fever in the morning. “You can’t be sick,” said Mildred. He closed his eyes over the hotness. “Yes.” “But you were all right, last night.” “No, I wasn’t all right.” He heard the “relatives” shouting in the parlor. Mildred stood over his bed, curiously. He felt her there, he saw her without opening his eyes, her hair burnt by chemicals to a brittle straw, her eyes with a kind of cataract unseen but suspect far behind the pupils, the reddened pouting lips, the body as thin as a praying mantis from dieting, and her flesh like white bacon. He could remember her no other way.  “Will you bring me aspirin and water?” “You’ve got to get up,” she said. “It’s noon. You’ve slept five hours later than usual.” “Will you turn the parlor off?” he asked. “That’s my family.” “Will you turn it off for a sick man?” “I’ll turn it down.” She went out of the room and did nothing to the parlor and came back. “Is that better?” “Thanks.” “That’s my favorite program,” she said. “What about the aspirin?” “You’ve never been sick before.” She went away again. “Well, I’m sick now. I’m not going to work tonight. Call Beatty for me.” “You acted funny lasted night.” She returned, humming. “Where’s the aspirin?” He glanced at the water glass she handed him. “Oh.” She walked to the bath again. “Did something happen?” “A fire, is all.” “I had a nice evening,” she said, in the bathroom. “What doing?” “The parlor.” “What was on?” “Programs.” “What programs?” “Some of the best ever.”  “Who?” “Oh, you know, the bunch.” “Yes, the bunch, the bunch, the bunch.” He pressed at the pain in his eyes and suddenly the odor of kerosene made him vomit. Mildred came in, humming. She was surprised. “Why’d you do that?” He looked with dismay at the floor. “We burned an old woman with her books.” “It’s a good thing the rug’s washable.” She fetched a mop and worked on it. “I went to Helen’s last night.” “Couldn’t you get the shows in your own parlor?” “Sure, but it’s nice visiting.” She went out into the parlor. He heard her singing. “Mildred?” he called. She returned, singing, snapping her fingers softly. “Aren’t you going to ask me about last night?” he said. “What about it?” “We burned a thousand books. We burned a woman.” “Well?” The parlor was exploding with sound. “We burned copies of Dante and Swift and Marcus Aurelius.” “Wasn’t he a European?” “Something like that.” “Wasn’t he a radical?” “I never read him.”  “He was a radical.” Mildred fiddled with the telephone. “You don’t expect me to call Captain Beatty, do you?” “You must!” “Don’t shout!” “I wasn’t shouting.” He was up in bed, suddenly, enraged and flushed, shaking. The parlor roared in the hot air. “I can’t call him. I can’t tell him I’m sick.” “Why?” Because you’re afraid, he thought. A child feigning illness, afraid to call because after a moment’s discussion, the conversation would run so: “Yes, Captain, I feel better already. I’ll be in at ten o’clock tonight.” “You’re not sick,” said Mildred. Montag fell back in bed. He reached under his pillow. The hidden book was still there. “Mildred, how would it be if, well, maybe I quit my job awhile?” “You want to give up everything? After all these years of working, because, one night, some woman and her books—” “You should have seen her, Millie!” “She’s nothing to me; she shouldn’t have had books. It was her responsibility, she should’ve thought of that. I hate her. She’s got you going and next thing you know we’ll be out, no house, no job, nothing.” “You weren’t there, you didn’t see,” he said. “There must be something in books, things we can’t imagine, to make a woman stay in a burning house; there must be something there. You don’t stay for nothing.” “She was simple-minded.”  “She was a rational as you and I, more so perhaps, and we burned her.” “That’s water under the bridge.” “No, not water; fire. You ever seen a burned house? It smolders for days. Well, this fire’ll last me the rest of my life. God! I’ve been trying to put it out, in my mind, all night. I’m crazy with trying.” “You should’ve thought of that before becoming a fireman.” “Thought!” he said. “Was I given a choice? My grandfather and father were firemen. In my sleep, I ran after them.” The parlor was playing a dance tune. “This is the day you go on the early shift,” said Mildred. “You should’ve gone two hours ago. I just noticed.” “It’s not just the woman that died,” said Montag. “Last night I thought about all that kerosene I’ve used in the past ten years. And I thought about books. And for the first time I realized that a man was behind each one of the books. A man had to think them up. A man had to take a long time to put them down on paper. And I’d never even thought that thought before.” He got out of bed. “It took some man a lifetime maybe to put some of his thoughts down, looking around at the world and life and then I come along in two minutes and boom! it’s all over.” “Let me alone,” said Mildred. “I didn’t do anything.” “Let you alone! That’s all very well, but how can I leave myself alone? We need not to be let alone. We need to be really bothered once in a while. How long is it since you were really bothered? About something important, about something real?”  And then he shut up, for he remembered last week and the two white stones staring up at the ceiling and the pumpsnake with the probing eye and the two soap-faced men with the cigarettes moving in their mouths when they talked. But that was another Mildred, that was a Mildred so deep inside this one, and so bothered, really bothered, that the two women had never met. He turned away. Mildred said, “Well, now you’ve done it. Out front of the house. Look who’s here.” “I don’t care.” “There’s a Phoenix car just drove up and a man in a black shirt with an orange snake stitched on his arm coming up the front walk.” “Captain Beatty?” he said. “Captain Beatty.” Montag did not move, but stood looking into the cold whiteness of the wall immediately before him. “Go let him in, will you? Tell him I’m sick.” “Tell him yourself!” She ran a few steps this way, a few steps that, and stopped, eyes wide, when the front door speaker called her name, softly, softly, Mrs. Montag, Mrs. Montag, someone here, someone here, Mrs. Montag, Mrs. Montag, someone’s here. Fading. Montag made sure the book was well hidden behind the pillow, climbed slowly back into bed, arranged the covers over his knees and across his chest, half- sitting, and after a while Mildred moved and went out of the room and Captain Beatty strolled in, his hands in his pockets. “Shut the ‘relatives’ up,” said Beatty, looking around at everything except Montag and his wife.  This time, Mildred ran. The yammering voices stopped yelling in the parlor. Captain Beatty sat down in the most comfortable chair with a peaceful look on his ruddy face. He took time to prepare and light his brass pipe and puff out a great smoke cloud. “Just thought I’d come by and see how the sick man is.” “How’d you guess?” Beatty smiled his smile which showed the candy pinkness of his gums and the tiny candy whiteness of his teeth. “I’ve seen it all. You were going to call for a night off.” Montag sat in bed. “Well,” said Beatty, “take the night off!” He examined his eternal matchbox, the lid of which said GUARANTEED: ONE MILLION LIGHTS IN THIS IGNITER, and began to strike the chemical match abstractedly, blow out, strike, blow out strike, speak a few words, blow out. He looked at the flame. He blew, he looked at the smoke. “When will you be well?” “Tomorrow. The next day maybe. First of the week.” Beatty puffed his pipe. “Every fireman, sooner or later, hits this. They only need understanding, to know how the wheels run. Need to know the history of our profession. They don’t feed it to rookies like they used to. Damn shame.” Puff. “Only fire chiefs remember it now.” Puff. “I’ll let you in on it.” Mildred fidgeted. Beatty took a full minute to settle himself in and think back for what he wanted to say. “When did it all start, you ask, this job of ours, how did it come about, where, when? Well, I’d say it really got started around about a thing called the Civil War. Even though our rule book claims it was founded earlier. The fact is we didn’t get along well until photography came into its own. Then—motion pictures in the early twentieth century. Radio. Television. Things began to have mass.” Montag sat in bed, not moving. “And because they had mass, they became simpler,” said Beatty. “Once, books appealed to a few people, here, there, everywhere. They could afford to be different. The world was roomy. But then the world got full of eyes and elbows and mouths. Double, triple, quadruple population. Films and radios, magazines, books leveled down to a sort of paste pudding norm, do you follow me?” “I think so.” Beatty peered at the smoke pattern he had put out on the air. “Picture it. Nineteenth-century man with his horses, dogs, carts, slow motion. Then, in the twentieth century, speed up your camera. Books cut shorter. Condensations. Digests, Tabloids. Everything boils down to the gag, the snap ending.” “Snap ending.” Mildred nodded. “Classics cut to fit fifteen-minute radio shows, then cut again to fill a two- minute book column, winding up at last as a ten- or twelve-line dictionary resume. I exaggerate, of course. The dictionaries were for reference. But many were those whose sole knowledge of Hamlet (you know the title certainly, Montag; it is probably only a faint rumor of a title to you, Mrs. Montag), whose sole knowledge, as I say, of Hamlet was a one-page digest in a book that claimed: now at last you can read all the classics; keep up with your neighbors. Do you see? Out of the nursery into the college and back to the nursery; there’s your intellectual pattern for the past five centuries or more.” Mildred arose and began to move around the room, picking things up and putting them down. Beatty ignored her and continued:  “Speed up the film, Montag, quick. Click, Pic, Look, Eye, Now, Flick, Here, There, Swift, Pace, Up, Down, In, Out, Why, How, Who, What, Where, Eh? Uh! Bang! Smack! Wallop, Bing, Bong, Boom! Digest-digests, digest-digest-digests. Politics? One column, two sentences, a headline! Then, in mid-air, all vanishes! Whirl man’s mind around about so fast under the pumping hands of publishers, exploiters, broadcasters that the centrifuge flings off all unnecessary, time-wasting thought!” Mildred smoothed the bedclothes. Montag felt his heart jump and jump again as she patted his pillow. Right now she was pulling at his shoulder to try to get him to move so she could take the pillow out and fix it nicely and put it back. And perhaps cry out and stare or simply reach down her hand and say, “What’s this?” and hold up the hidden book with touching innocence. “School is shortened, discipline relaxed, philosophies, histories, languages dropped, English and spelling gradually gradually neglected, finally almost completely ignored. Life is immediate, the job counts, pleasure lies all about after work. Why learn anything save pressing buttons, pulling switches, fitting nuts and bolts?” “Let me fix your pillow,” said Mildred. “No!” whispered Montag. “The zipper displaces the button and a man lacks just that much time to think while dressing at dawn, a philosophical hour, and thus a melancholy hour.” Mildred said, “Here.” “Get away,” said Montag. “Life becomes one big pratfall, Montag; everything bang, boff, and wow!” “Wow,” said Mildred, yanking at the pillow.  “For God’s sake, let me be!” cried Montag passionately. Beatty opened his eyes wide. Mildred’s hand had frozen behind the pillow. Her fingers were tracing the book’s outline and as the shape became familiar her face looked surprised and then stunned. Her mouth opened to ask a question.... “Empty the theaters save for clowns and furnish the rooms with glass walls and pretty colors running up and down the walls like confetti or blood or sherry or sauterne. You like baseball, don’t you, Montag?” “Baseball’s a fine game.” Now Beatty was almost invisible, a voice somewhere behind a screen of smoke. “What’s this?” asked Mildred, almost with delight. Montag heaved back against her arms. “What’s this here?” “Sit down!” Montag shouted. She jumped away, her hands empty. “We’re talking!” Beatty went on as if nothing had happened. “You like bowling, don’t you, Montag?” “Bowling, yes.” “And golf?” “Golf is a fine game.” “Basketball?” “A fine game.” “Billiards, pool? Football?” “Fine games, all of them.” “More sports for everyone, group spirit, fun, and you don’t have to think, eh? Organize and organize and super organize super-super sports. More cartoons in books. More pictures. The mind drinks less and less. Impatience. Highways full of crowds going somewhere, somewhere, somewhere, nowhere. The gasoline refugee. Towns turn into motels, people in nomadic surges from place to place, following the moon tides, living tonight in the room where you slept this noon and I the night before.” Mildred went out of the room and slammed the door. The parlor “aunts” began to laugh at the parlor “uncles.” “Now let’s take up the minorities in our civilization, shall we? Bigger the population, the more minorities. Don’t step on the toes of the dog-lovers, the cat- lovers, doctors, lawyers, merchants, chiefs, Mormons, Baptists, Unitarians, second-generation Chinese, Swedes, Italians, Germans, Texans, Brooklynites, Irishmen, people from Oregon or Mexico. The people in this book, this play, this TV serial are not meant to represent any actual painters, cartographers, mechanics anywhere. The bigger your market, Montag, the less you handle controversy, remember that! All the minor minor minorities with their navels to be kept clean. Authors, full of evil thoughts, lock up your typewriters. They did. Magazines became a nice blend of vanilla tapioca. Books, so the damned snobbish critics said, were dishwater. No wonder books stopped selling, the critics said. But the public, knowing what it wanted, spinning happily, let the comic books survive. And the three-dimensional sex magazines, of course. There you have it, Montag. It didn’t come from the Government down. There was no dictum, no declaration, no censorship, to start with, no! Technology, mass exploitation, and minority pressure carried the trick, thank God. Today, thanks to them, you can stay happy all the time, you are allowed to read comics, the good old confessions, or trade journals.”  “Yes, but what about the firemen, then?” asked Montag. “Ah.” Beatty leaned forward in the faint mist of smoke from his pipe. “What more easily explained and natural? With school turning out more runners, jumpers, racers, tinkerers, grabbers, snatchers, fliers, and swimmers instead of examiners, critics, knowers, and imaginative creators, the word ‘intellectual,’ of course, became the swear word it deserved to be. You always dread the unfamiliar. Surely you remember the boy in your own school class who was exceptionally ‘bright,’ did most of the reciting and answering while the others sat like so many leaden idols, hating him. And wasn’t it this bright boy you selected for beatings and tortures after hours? Of course it was. We must all be alike. Not everyone born free and equal, as the Constitution says, but everyone made equal. Each man the image of every other; then all are happy, for there are no mountains to make them cower, to judge themselves against. So! A book is a loaded gun in the house next door. Burn it. Take the shot from the weapon. Breach man’s mind. Who knows who might be the target of the well-read man? Me? I won’t stomach them for a minute. And so when houses were finally fireproofed completely, all over the world (you were correct in your assumption the other night) there was no longer need of firemen for the old purposes. They were given the new job, as custodians of our peace of mind, the focus of our understandable and rightful dread of being inferior; official censors, judges, and executors. That’s you, Montag, and that’s me.” The door to the parlor opened and Mildred stood there looking in at them, looking at Beatty and then at Montag. Behind her the walls of the room were flooded with green and yellow and orange fireworks sizzling and bursting to some music composed almost completely of trap drums, tom-toms, and cymbals. Her mouth moved and she was saying something but the sound covered it. Beatty knocked his pipe into the palm of his pink hand, studied the ashes as if they were a symbol to be diagnosed and searched for meaning. “You must understand that our civilization is so vast that we can’t have our minorities upset and stirred. Ask yourself, What do we want in this country, above all? People want to be happy, isn’t that right? Haven’t you heard it all your life? I want to be happy, people say. Well, aren’t they? Don’t we keep them moving, don’t we give them fun? That’s all we live for, isn’t it? For pleasure, for titillation? And you must admit our culture provides plenty of these.” “Yes.” Montag could lip-read what Mildred was saying in the doorway. He tried not to look at her mouth, because then Beatty might turn and read what was there, too. “Colored people don’t like Little Black Sambo. Burn it. White people don’t feel good about Uncle Tom’s Cabin. Burn it. Someone’s written a book on tobacco and cancer of the lungs? The cigarette people are weeping? Burn the book. Serenity, Montag. Peace, Montag. Take your fight outside. Better yet, into the incinerator. Funerals are unhappy and pagan? Eliminate them, too. Five minutes after a person is dead he’s on his way to the Big Flue, the Incinerators serviced by helicopters all over the country. Ten minutes after death a man’s a speck of black dust. Let’s not quibble over individuals with memoriams. Forget them. Burn all, burn everything. Fire is bright and fire is clean.” The fireworks died in the parlor behind Mildred. She had stopped talking at the same time; a miraculous coincidence. Montag held his breath.  “There was a girl next door,” he said, slowly. “She’s gone now, I think, dead. I can’t even remember her face. But she was different. How—how did she happen?” Beatty smiled. “Here or there, that’s bound to occur. Clarisse McClellan? We’ve a record on her family. We’ve watched them carefully. Heredity and environment are funny things. You can’t rid yourselves of all the odd ducks in just a few years. The home environment can undo a lot you try to do at school. That’s why we’ve lowered the kindergarten age year after year until now we’re almost snatching them from the cradle. We had some false alarms on the McClellans, when they lived in Chicago. Never found a book. Uncle had a mixed record; antisocial. The girl? She was a time bomb. The family had been feeding her subconscious, I’m sure, from what I saw of her school record. She didn’t want to know how a thing was done, but why. That can be embarrassing. You ask Why to a lot of things and you wind up very unhappy indeed, if you keep at it. The poor girl’s better off dead.” “Yes, dead.” “Luckily, queer ones like her don’t happen often. We know how to nip most of them in the bud, early. You can’t build a house without nails and wood. If you don’t want a house built, hide the nails and wood. If you don’t want a man unhappy politically, don’t give him two sides to a question to worry him; give him one. Better yet, give him none. Let him forget there is such a thing as war. If the government is inefficient, top-heavy, and tax-mad, better it be all those than that people worry over it. Peace, Montag. Give the people contests they win by remembering the words to more popular songs or the names of state capitals or how much corn Iowa grew last year. Cram them full of noncombustible data, chock them so damned full of ‘facts’ they feel stuffed, but absolutely ‘brilliant’ with information. Then they’ll feel they’re thinking, they’ll get a sense of motion without moving. And they’ll be happy, because facts of that sort don’t change. Don’t give them any slippery stuff like philosophy or sociology to tie things up with. That way lies melancholy. Any man who can take a TV wall apart and put it back together again, and most men can, nowadays, is happier than any man who tries to slide rule, measure, and equate the universe, which just won’t be measured or equated without making man feel bestial and lonely. I know, I’ve tried it; to hell with it. So bring on your clubs and parties, your acrobats and magicians, your daredevils, jet cars, motorcycle helicopters, your sex and heroin, more of everything to do with automatic reflex. If the drama is bad, if the film says nothing, if the play is hollow, sting me with the Theremin, loudly. I’ll think I’m responding to the play, when it’s only a tactile reaction to vibration. But I don’t care. I just like solid entertainment.” Beatty got up. “I must be going. Lecture’s over. I hope I’ve clarified things. The important thing for you to remember, Montag, is we’re the Happiness Boys, the Dixie Duo, you and I and the others. We stand against the small tide of those who want to make everyone unhappy with conflicting theory and thought. We have our fingers in the dike. Hold steady. Don’t let the torrent of melancholy and drear philosophy drown our world. We depend on you. I don’t think you realize how important you are, we are, to our happy world as it stands now.” Beatty shook Montag’s limp hand. Montag still sat, as if the house were collapsing about him and he could not move, in the bed. Mildred had vanished from the door.  “One last thing,” said Beatty. “At least once in his career, every fireman gets an itch. What do the books say, he wonders. Oh, to scratch that itch, eh? Well, Montag, take my word for it, I’ve had to read a few in my time, to know what I was about, and the books say nothing! Nothing you can teach or believe. They’re about nonexistent people, figments of imagination, if they’re fiction. And if they’re nonfiction, it’s worse, one professor calling another an idiot, one philosopher screaming down another’s gullet. All of them running about, putting out the stars and extinguishing the sun. You come away lost.” “Well, then, what if a fireman accidentally, really not intending anything, takes a book home with him?” Montag twitched. The open door looked at him with its great vacant eye. “A natural error. Curiosity alone,” said Beatty. “We don’t get overanxious or mad. We let the fireman keep the book twenty-four hours. If he hasn’t burned it by then, we simply come burn it for him.” “Of course.” Montag’s mouth was dry. “Well, Montag. Will you take another, later shift, today? Will we see you tonight perhaps?” “I don’t know,” said Montag. “What?” Beatty looked faintly surprised. Montag shut his eyes. “I’ll be in later. Maybe.” “We’d certainly miss you if you didn’t show,” said Beatty, putting his pipe in his pocket thoughtfully. I’ll never come in again, thought Montag. “Get well and keep well,” said Beatty. He turned and went out through the open door.  ººº Montag watched through the window as Beatty drove away in his gleaming yellow-flame-colored beetle with the black, char-colored tires. Across the street and down the way the other houses stood with their flat fronts. What was it Clarisse had said one afternoon? “No front porches. My uncle says there used to be front porches. And people sat there sometimes at night, talking when they wanted to talk, rocking, and not talking when they didn’t want to talk. Sometimes they just sat there and thought about things, turned things over. My uncle says the architects got rid of the front porches because they didn’t look well. But my uncle says that was merely rationalizing it; the real reason, hidden underneath, might be they didn’t want people sitting like that, doing nothing, rocking, talking; that was the wrong kind of social life. People talked too much. And they had time to think. So they ran off with the porches. And the gardens, too. Not many gardens anymore to sit around in. And look at the furniture. No rocking chairs anymore. They’re too comfortable. Get people up and running around. My uncle says... and... my uncle... and... my uncle...” Her voice faded. ººº Montag turned and looked at his wife, who sat in the middle of the parlor talking to an announcer, who in turn was talking to her. “Mrs. Montag,” he was saying. This, that, and the other. “Mrs. Montag—” Something else and still another. The converter attachment, which had cost them one hundred dollars, automatically supplied her name whenever the announcer addressed his anonymous audience, leaving a blank where the proper syllables could be filled in. A special spot- wavex-scrambler also caused his televised image, in the area immediately about his lips, to mouth the vowels and consonants beautifully. He was a friend, no doubt of it, a good friend. “Mrs. Montag—now look right here.” Her head turned. Though she quite obviously was not listening. Montag said, “It’s only a step from not going to work today to not working tomorrow, to not working at the firehouse ever again.” “You are going to work tonight, though, aren’t you?” said Mildred. “I haven’t decided. Right now I’ve got an awful feeling I want to smash things and kill things.” “Go take the beetle.” “No, thanks.” “The keys to the beetle are on the night table. I always like to drive fast when I feel that way. You get it up around ninety-five and you feel wonderful. Sometimes I drive all night and come back and you don’t know it. It’s fun out in the country. You hit rabbits, sometimes you hit dogs. Go take the beetle.” “No, I don’t want to, this time. I want to hold onto this funny thing. God, it’s gotten big on me. I don’t know what it is. I’m so damned unhappy, I’m so mad, and I don’t know why. I feel like I’m putting on weight. I feel fat. I feel like I’ve been saving up a lot of things, and don’t know what. I might even start reading books.” “They’d put you in jail, wouldn’t they?” She looked at him as if he were behind the glass wall. He began to put on his clothes, moving restlessly about the bedroom. “Yes, and it might be a good idea. Before I hurt someone. Did you hear Beatty? Did you listen to him? He knows all the answers. He’s right. Happiness is important. Fun is everything. And yet I kept sitting there saying to myself, I’m not happy, I’m not happy.” “I am.” Mildred’s mouth beamed. “And proud of it.” “I’m going to do something,” said Montag. “I don’t even know what yet, but I’m going to do something big.” “I’m tired of listening to this junk,” said Mildred, turning from him to the announcer again. Montag touched the volume control in the wall and the announcer was speechless. “Millie?” He paused. “This is your house as well as mine. I feel it’s only fair that I tell you something now. I should have told you before, but I wasn’t even admitting it to myself. I have something I want you to see, something I’ve put away and hid during the past year, now and again, once in a while, I didn’t know why, but I did it and I never told you.” He took hold of a straight-backed chair and moved it slowly and steadily into the hall near the front door and climbed up on it and stood for a moment like a statue on a pedestal, his wife standing under him, waiting. Then he reached up and pulled back the grill of the air-conditioning system and reached far back inside to the right and moved still another sliding sheet of metal and took out a book. Without looking at it he dropped it to the floor. He put his hand back up and took out two books and moved his hand down and dropped the two books to the floor. He kept moving his hand and dropping books, small ones, fairly large ones, yellow, red, green ones. When he was done he looked down upon some twenty books lying at his wife’s feet.  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t really think. But now it looks as if we’re in this together.” Mildred backed away as if she were suddenly confronted by a pack of mice that had come up out of the floor. He could hear her breathing rapidly and her face was paled out and her eyes were fastened wide. She said his name over, twice, three times. Then, moaning, she ran forward, seized a book and ran toward the kitchen incinerator. He caught her, shrieking. He held her and she tried to fight away from him, scratching. “No, Millie, no! Wait! Stop it, will you? You don’t know... stop it!” He slapped her face, he grabbed her again and shook her. She said his name and began to cry. “Millie!” he said. “Listen. Give me a second, will you? We can’t do anything. We can’t burn these. I want to look at them, at least look at them once. Then if what the Captain says is true, we’ll burn them together, believe me, we’ll burn them together. You must help me.” He looked down into her face and took hold of her chin and held her firmly. He was looking not only at her, but for himself and what he must do, in her face. “Whether we like this or not, we’re in it. I’ve never asked for much from you in all these years, but I ask it now, I plead for it. We’ve got to start somewhere here, figuring out why we’re in such a mess, you and the medicine nights, and the car, and me and my work. We’re heading right for the cliff, Millie. God, I don’t want to go over. This isn’t going to be easy. We haven’t anything to go on, but maybe we can piece it out and figure it and help each other. I need you so much right now, I can’t tell you. If you love me at all you’ll put up with this, twenty-four, forty-eight hours, that’s all I ask, then it’ll be over, I promise, I swear! And if there is something here, just one little thing out of a whole mess of things, maybe we can pass it on to someone else.” She wasn’t fighting any more, so he let her go. She sagged away from him and slid down the wall, and sat on the floor looking at the books. Her foot touched one and she saw this and pulled her foot away. “That woman, the other night, Millie, you weren’t there. You didn’t see her face. And Clarisse. You never talked to her. I talked to her. And men like Beatty are afraid of her. I can’t understand it. Why should they be so afraid of someone like her? But I kept putting her alongside the firemen in the House last night, and I suddenly realized I didn’t like them at all, and I didn’t like myself at all any more. And I thought maybe it would be best if the firemen themselves were burnt.” “Guy!” The front door voice called softly: “Mrs. Montag, Mrs. Montag, someone here, someone here, Mrs. Montag, Mrs. Montag, someone here.” Softly. They turned to the stare at the door and the books toppled everywhere, everywhere in heaps. “Beatty!” said Mildred. “It can’t be him.” “He’s come back!” she whispered. The front door voiced called again softly. “Someone here....” “We won’t answer.” Montag lay back against the wall and then slowly sank to a crouching position and began to nudge the books, bewilderedly, with his thumb, his forefinger. He was shivering and he wanted above all to shove the books up through the ventilator again, but he knew he could not face Beatty again. He crouched and then he sat and the voice of the front door spoke again, more insistently. Montag picked a single small volume from the floor. “Where do we begin?” He opened the book halfway and peered at it. “We begin by beginning, I guess.” “He’ll come in,” said Mildred, “and burn us and the books!” The front door voice faded at last. There was a silence. Montag felt the presence of someone beyond the door, waiting, listening. Then the footsteps going away down the walk and over the lawn. “Let’s see what this is,” said Montag. He spoke the words haltingly and with a terrible self-consciousness. He read a dozen pages here or there and came at last to this: “ ‘It is computed, that eleven thousand persons have at several times suffered death rather than submit to break their eggs at the smaller end.’ ” Mildred sat across the hall from him. “What does it mean? It doesn’t mean anything! The Captain was right!” “Here now,” said Montag. “We’ll start over again, at the beginning.” two The Sieve and the Sand They read the long afternoon through, while the cold November rain fell from the sky upon the quiet house. They sat in the hall because the parlor was so empty and gray-looking without its wall lit with orange and yellow confetti and skyrockets and women in gold-mesh dresses and men in black velvet pulling one- hundred-pound rabbits from silver hats. The parlor was dead and Mildred kept peering in at it with a blank expression as Montag paced the floor and came back and squatted down and read a page as many as ten times, aloud. “ ‘We cannot tell the precise moment when friendship is formed. As in filling a vessel drop by drop, there is at last a drop which makes it run over; so in a series of kindnesses there is at least one which makes the heart run over.’ ” Montag sat listening to the rain. “Is that what it was in the girl next door? I’ve tried so hard to figure.” “She’s dead. Let’s talk about someone alive, for goodness’ sake.” Montag did not look back at his wife as he went trembling along the hall to the kitchen, where he stood a long time watching the rain hit the windows before he came back down the hall in the gray light, waiting for the tremble to subside. He opened another book. “ ‘That favorite subject, Myself.’ ” He squinted at the wall. “ ‘That favorite subject, Myself.’ ” “I understand that one,” said Mildred.  “But Clarisse’s favorite subject wasn’t herself. It was everyone else, and me. She was the first person in a good many years I’ve really liked. She was the first person I can remember who looked straight at me as if I counted.” He lifted the two books. “These men have been dead a long time, but I know their words point, one way or another, to Clarisse.” Outside the front door, in the rain, a faint scratching. Montag froze. He saw Mildred thrust herself back to the wall and gasp. “Someone—the door—why doesn’t the door-voice tell us—” “I shut it off.” Under the doorsill, a slow, probing sniff, an exhalation of electric steam. Mildred laughed. “It’s only a dog, that’s what! You want me to shoo him away?” “Stay where you are!” Silence. The cold rain falling. And the smell of blue electricity blowing under the locked door. “Let’s get back to work,” said Montag quietly. Mildred kicked at a book. “Books aren’t people. You read and I look all around, but there isn’t anybody!” He stared at the parlor that was dead and gray as the waters of an ocean that might teem with life if they switched on the electronic sun. “Now,” said Mildred, “my ‘family’ is people. They tell me things; I laugh, they laugh! And the colors!” “Yes, I know.” “And besides, if Captain Beatty knew about those books—” She thought about it. Her face grew amazed and then horrified. “He might come and burn the house and the ‘family.’ That’s awful! Think of our investment. Why should I read? What for?” “What for! Why!” said Montag. “I saw the damnedest snake in the world the other night. It was dead but it was alive. It could see but it couldn’t see. You want to see that snake? It’s at Emergency Hospital where they filed a report on all the junk the snake got out of you! Would you like to go and check their file? Maybe you’d look under Guy Montag or maybe under Fear or War. Would you like to go to that house that burnt last night? And rake ashes for the bones of the woman who set fire to her own house! What about Clarisse McClellan, where do we look for her? The morgue! Listen!” The bombers crossed the sky and crossed the sky over the house, gasping, murmuring, whistling like an immense, invisible fan, circling in emptiness. “Jesus God,” said Montag. “Every hour so many damn things in the sky! How in hell did those bombers get up there every single second of our lives! Why doesn’t someone want to talk about it! We’ve started and won two atomic wars since 2022! Is it because we’re having so much fun at home we’ve forgotten the world? Is it because we’re so rich and the rest of the world’s so poor and we just don’t care if they are? I’ve heard rumors; the world is starving, but we’re well fed. Is it true, the world works hard and we play? Is that why we’re hated so much? I’ve heard the rumors about hate, too, once in a long while, over the years. Do you know why? I don’t, that’s sure! Maybe the books can get us half out of the cave. They just might stop us from making the same damn insane mistakes! I don’t hear those idiot bastards in your parlor talking about it. God, Millie, don’t you see? An hour a day, two hours, with these books, and maybe...” The telephone rang. Mildred snatched the phone.  “Ann!” She laughed. “Yes, the White Clown’s on tonight!” Montag walked to the kitchen and threw the book down. “Montag,” he said, “you’re really stupid. Where do we go from here? Do we turn the books in, forget it?” He opened the book to read over Mildred’s laughter. Poor Millie, he thought. Poor Montag, it’s mud to you, too. But where do you get help, where do you find a teacher this late? Hold on. He shut his eyes. Yes, of course. Again he found himself thinking of the green park a year ago. The thought had been with him many times recently but now he remembered how it was that day in the city park when he had seen that old man in the black suit hide something, quickly, in his coat.... The old man leapt up as if to run. And Montag said, “Wait!” “I haven’t done anything!” cried the old man, trembling. “No one said you did.” They had sat in the green soft light without saying a word for a moment and then Montag talked about the weather and then the old man responded with a pale voice. It was a strange quiet meeting. The old man admitted to being a retired English professor who had been thrown out upon the world forty years ago when the last liberal arts college shut for lack of students and patronage. His name was Faber, and when he finally lost his fear of Montag, he talked in a cadenced voice, looking at the sky and the trees and the green park, and when an hour had passed he said something to Montag and Montag sensed it was a rhymeless poem. Then the old man grew even more courageous and said something else and that was a poem, too. Faber held his hand over his left coat pocket and spoke these words gently, and Montag knew if he reached out, he might pull a book of poetry from the man’s coat. But he did not reach out. His hands stayed on his knees, numbed and useless. “I don’t talk things, sir,” said Faber. “I talk the meaning of things. I sit here and know I’m alive.” That was all there was to it, really. An hour of monologue, a poem, a comment, and then without either acknowledging the fact that Montag was a fireman, Faber, with a certain trembling, wrote his address on a slip of paper. “For your file,” he said, “in case you decide to be angry with me.” “I’m not angry,” Montag said, surprised. ººº Mildred shrieked with laughter in the hall. Montag went to his bedroom closet and flipped through his file-wallet to the heading: FUTURE INVESTIGATIONS (?). Faber’s name was there. He hadn’t turned it in and he hadn’t erased it. He dialed the call on a secondary phone. The phone on the far end of the line called Faber’s name a dozen times before the professor answered in a faint voice. Montag identified himself and was met with a lengthy silence. “Yes, Mr. Montag?” “Professor Faber, I have a rather odd question to ask. How many copies of the Bible are left in this country?” “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” “I want to know if there are any copies left at all.” “This is some sort of trap! I can’t talk to just anyone on the phone!” “How many copies of Shakespeare and Plato?” “None! You know as well as I do. None!” Faber hung up.  Montag put down the phone. None. A thing he knew of course from the firehouse listings. But somehow he had wanted to hear it from Faber himself. In the hall Mildred’s face was suffused with excitement. “Well, the ladies are coming over!” Montag showed her a book. “This is the Old and New Testament, and...” “Don’t start that again!” “It might be the last copy in this part of the world.” “You’ve got to hand it back tonight, don’t you? Captain Beatty knows you got it, doesn’t he?” “I don’t think he knows which book I stole. But how do I choose a substitute? Do I turn in Mr. Jefferson? Mr. Thoreau? Which is least valuable? If I pick a substitute and Beatty does know which book I stole, he’ll guess we’ve an entire library here!” Mildred’s mouth twitched. “See what you’re doing? You’ll ruin us! Who’s more important, me or that Bible?” She was beginning to shriek now, sitting there like a wax doll melting in its own heat. He could hear Beatty’s voice. “Sit down, Montag. Watch. Delicately, like the petals of a flower. Light the first page, light the second page. Each becomes a black butterfly. Beautiful, eh? Light the third page, from the second and so on, chain-smoking, chapter by chapter, all the silly things the words mean, all the false promises, all the secondhand notions and time-worn philosophies.” There sat Beatty, perspiring gently, the floor littered with swarms of black moths that had died in a single storm. Mildred stopped screaming as quickly as she started. Montag was not listening. “There’s only one thing to do,” he said. “Some time before tonight when I give the book to Beatty, I’ve got to have a duplicate made.” “You’ll be here for the White Clown tonight, and the ladies coming over?” cried Mildred. Montag stopped at the door, with his back turned. “Millie?” A silence. “What?” “Millie? Does the White Clown love you?” No answer. “Millie, does”—he licked his lips—“does your ‘family’ love you, love you very much, love you with all their heart and soul, Millie?” He felt her blinking slowly at the back of his neck. “Why’d you ask a silly question like that?” He felt he wanted to cry, but nothing would happen to his eyes or his mouth. “If you see that dog outside,” said Mildred, “give him a kick for me.” He hesitated, listening at the door. He opened it and stepped out. The rain had stopped and the sun was setting in the clear sky. The street and the lawn and the porch were empty. He let his breath go in a great sigh. He slammed the door. He was on the subway. I’m numb, he thought. When did the numbness really begin in my face? In my body? The night I kicked the pill bottle in the dark, like kicking a buried mine. The numbness will go away, he thought. It’ll take time, but I’ll do it, or Faber will do it for me. Someone somewhere will give me back the old face and the old hands the way they were. Even the smile, he thought, the old burnt-in smile, that’s gone. I’m lost without it.  The subway fled past him, cream-tile, jet-black, cream-tile, jet-black, numerals and darkness, more darkness and the total adding itself. Once as a child he had sat upon a yellow dune by the sea in the middle of the blue and hot summer day, trying to fill a sieve with sand, because some cruel cousin had said, “Fill this sieve and you’ll get a dime!” And the faster he poured, the faster it sifted through with a hot whispering. His hands were tired, the sand was boiling, the sieve was empty. Seated there in the midst of July, without a sound, he felt the tears move down his cheeks. Now as the vacuum-underground rushed him through the dead cellars of town, jolting him, he remembered the terrible logic of that sieve, and he looked down and saw that he was carrying the Bible open. There were people in the suction train but he held the book in his hands and the silly thought came to him, if you read fast and read all, maybe some of the sand will stay in the sieve. But he read and the worlds fell through, and he thought, in a few hours, there will be Beatty, and here will be me handing this over, so no phrase must escape me, each line must be memorized. I will myself to do it. He clenched the book in his fists. Trumpets blared. “Denham’s Dentifrice.” Shut up, thought Montag. Consider the lilies of the field. “Denham’s Dentifrice.” They toil not— “Denham’s—” Consider the lilies of the field, shut up, shut up. “Dentifrice!”  He tore the book open and flicked the pages and felt of them as if he were blind, he picked at the shape of the individual letters, not blinking. “Denham’s. Spelled: D-E-N—” They toil not, neither do they... A fierce whisper of hot sand through empty sieve. “Denham’s does it!” Consider the lilies, the lilies, the lilies... “Denham’s dental detergent.” “Shut up, shut up, shut up!” It was a plea, a cry so terrible that Montag found himself on his feet, the shocked inhabitants of the loud car staring, moving back from this man with the insane, gorged face, the gibbering, dry mouth, the flapping book in his fist. The people who had been sitting a moment before, tapping their feet to the rhythm of Denham’s Dentifrice, Denham’s Dandy Dental Detergent, Denham’s Dentifrice Dentifrice Dentifrice, one two, one two three, one two, one two three. The people whose mouths had been faintly twitching the words Dentifrice Dentifrice Dentifrice. The train radio vomited upon Montag, in retaliation, a great tonload of music made of tin, copper, silver, chromium, and brass. The people were pounded into submission; they did not run, there was no place to run; the great air train fell down its shaft in the earth. “Lilies of the field.” “Denham’s.” “Lilies, I said!” The people stared. “Call the guard.” “The man’s off—”  “Knoll View!” The train hissed to its stop. “Knoll View!” A cry. “Denham’s.” A whisper. Montag’s mouth barely moved. “Lilies...” The train door whistled open. Montag stood. The door gasped, started shut. Only then did he leap past the other passengers, screaming in his mind, plunge through the slicing door only in time. He ran on the white tiles up through the tunnels, ignoring the escalators, because he wanted to feel his feet move, arms swing, lungs clench, unclench, feel his throat go raw with air. A voice drifted after him, “Denham’s Denham’s Denham’s,” the train hissed like a snake. The train vanished in its hole. ººº “Who is it?” “Montag out here.” “What do you want?” “Let me in.” “I haven’t done anything!” “I’m alone, dammit!” “You swear it?” “I swear!” The front door opened slowly. Faber peered out, looking very old in the light and very fragile and very much afraid. The old man looked as if he had not been out of the house in years. He and the white plaster walls inside were much the same. There was white in the flesh of his mouth and his cheeks and his hair was white and his eyes had faded, with white in the vague blueness there. Then his eyes touched on the book under Montag’s arm and he did not look so old any more and not quite as fragile. Slowly, his fear went. “I’m sorry. One has to be careful.” He looked at the book under Montag’s arm and could not stop. “So it’s true.” Montag stepped inside. The door shut. “Sit down.” Faber backed up, as if he feared the book might vanish if he took his eyes from it. Behind him, the door to a bedroom stood open, and in that room a litter of machinery and steel tools were strewn upon a desktop. Montag had only a glimpse, before Faber, seeing Montag’s attention diverted, turned quickly and shut the bedroom door and stood holding the knob with a trembling hand. His gaze returned unsteadily to Montag, who was now seated with the book in his lap. “The book—where did you—?” “I stole it.” Faber, for the first time, raised his eyes and looked directly into Montag’s face. “You’re brave.” “No,” said Montag. “My wife’s dying. A friend of mine’s already dead. Someone who may have been a friend was burnt less than twenty-four hours ago. You’re the only one I knew might help me. To see. To see...” Faber’s hands itched on his knees. “May I?” “Sorry.” Montag gave him the book. “It’s been a long time. I’m not a religious man. But it’s been a long time.” Faber turned the pages, stopping here and there to read. “It’s as good as I remember. Lord, how they’ve changed it in our ‘parlors’ these days. Christ is one of the ‘family’ now. I often wonder if God recognizes His own son the way we’ve dressed him up, or is it dressed him down? He’s a regular peppermint stick now, all sugar-crystal and saccharine when he isn’t making veiled references to certain commercial products that every worshiper absolutely needs.” Faber sniffed the book. “Do you know that books smell like nutmeg or some spice from a foreign land? I loved to smell them when I was a boy. Lord, there were a lot of lovely books once, before we let them go.” Faber turned the pages. “Mr. Montag, you are looking at a coward. I saw the way things were going, a long time back. I said nothing. I’m one of the innocents who could have spoken up and out when no one would listen to the ‘guilty,’ but I did not speak and thus became guilty myself. And when finally they set the structure to burn the books, using the firemen, I grunted a few times and subsided, for there were no others grunting or yelling with me, by then. Now, it’s too late.” Faber closed the Bible. “Well— suppose you tell me why you came here?” “Nobody listens any more. I can’t talk to the walls because they’re yelling at me. I can’t talk to my wife; she listens to the walls. I just want someone to hear what I have to say. And maybe if I talk long enough, it’ll make sense. And I want you to teach me to understand what I read.” Faber examined Montag’s thin, blue-jowled face. “How did you get shaken up? What knocked the torch out of your hands?” “I don’t know. We have everything we need to be happy, but we aren’t happy. Something’s missing. I looked around. The only thing I positively knew was gone was the books I’d burned in ten or twelve years. So I thought books might help.” “You’re a hopeless romantic,” said Faber. “It would be funny if it were not serious. It’s not books you need, it’s some of the things that once were in books. The same things could be in the ‘parlor families’ today. The same infinite detail and awareness could be projected through the radios and televisors, but are not. No, no, it’s not books at all you’re looking for! Take it where you can find it, in old phonograph records, old motion pictures, and in old friends; look for it in nature and look for it in yourself. Books were only one type of receptacle where we stored a lot of things we were afraid we might forget. There is nothing magical in them, at all. The magic is only in what books say, how they stitched the patches of the universe together into one garment for us. Of course you couldn’t know this, of course you still can’t understand what I mean when I say all this. You are intuitively right, that’s what counts. Three things are missing. “Number one: Do you know why books such as this are so important? Because they have quality. And what does the word quality mean? To me it means texture. This book has pores. It has features. This book can go under the microscope. You’d find life under the glass, streaming past in infinite profusion. The more pores, the more truthfully recorded details of life per square inch you can get on a sheet of paper, the more ‘literary’ you are. That’s my definition, anyway. Telling detail. Fresh detail. The good writers touch life often. The mediocre ones run a quick hand over her. The bad ones rape her and leave her for the flies. “So now do you see why books are hated and feared? They show the pores in the face of life. The comfortable people want only wax moon faces, poreless, hairless, expressionless. We are living in a time when flowers are trying to live on flowers, instead of growing on good rain and black loam. Even fireworks, for all their prettiness, come from the chemistry of the earth. Yet somehow we think we can grow, feeding on flowers and fireworks, without completing the cycle back to reality. Do you know the legend of Hercules and Antaeus, the giant wrestler, whose strength was incredible so long as he stood firmly on the earth? But when he was held, rootless, in midair, by Hercules, he perished easily. If there isn’t something in that legend for us today, in this city, in our time, then I am completely insane. Well, there we have the first thing I said we needed. Quality, texture of information.” “And the second?” “Leisure.” “Oh, but we’ve plenty of off hours.” “Off hours, yes. But time to think? If you’re not driving a hundred miles an hour, at a clip where you can’t think of anything else but the danger, then you’re playing some game or sitting in some room where you can’t argue with the four- wall televisor. Why? The televisor is ‘real.’ It is immediate, it has dimension. It tells you what to think and blasts it in. It must be right. It seems so right. It rushes you on so quickly to its own conclusions your mind hasn’t time to protest, ‘What nonsense!’ ” “Only the ‘family’ is ‘people.’ ” “I beg pardon?” “My wife says books aren’t ‘real.’ ” “Thank God for that. You can shut them, say, ‘Hold on a moment.’ You play God to it. But who has ever torn himself from the claw that encloses you when you drop a seed in a TV parlor? It grows you any shape it wishes! It is an environment as real as the world. It becomes and is the truth. Books can be beaten down with reason. But with all my knowledge and skepticism, I have never been able to argue with a one-hundred-piece symphony orchestra, full color, three dimensions, and being in and part of those incredible parlors. As you see, my parlor is nothing but four plaster walls. And here.” He held out two small rubber plugs. “For my ears when I ride the subway jets.” “Denham’s Dentifrice; they toil not, neither do they spin,” said Montag, eyes shut. “Where do we go from here? Would books help us?” “Only if the third necessary thing could be given us. Number one, as I said, quality of information. Number two: leisure to digest it. And number three: the right to carry out actions based on what we learn from the interaction of the first two. And I hardly think a very old man and a fireman turned sour could do much this late in the game....” “I can get books.” “You’re running a risk.” “That’s the good part of dying; when you’ve nothing to lose, you run any risk you want.” “There, you’ve said an interesting thing,” laughed Faber, “without having read it!” “Are things like that in books? But it came off the top of my mind!” “All the better. You didn’t fancy it up for me or anyone, even yourself.” Montag leaned forward. “This afternoon I thought that if it turned out that books were worthwhile, we might get a press and print some extra copies—” “We?” “You and I.” “Oh, no!” Faber sat up. “But let me tell you my plan—” “If you insist on telling me, I must ask you to leave.” “But aren’t you interested?”  “Not if you start talking the sort of talk that might get me burnt for my trouble. The only way I could possibly listen to you would be if somehow the fireman structure itself could be burnt. Now if you suggest that we print extra books and arrange to have them hidden in firemen’s houses all over the country, so that seeds of suspicion would be sown among these arsonists, bravo, I’d say!” “Plant the books, turn in an alarm, and see the firemen’s houses burn, is that what you mean?” Faber raised his brows and looked at Montag as if he were seeing a new man. “I was joking.” “If you thought it would be a plan worth trying, I’d have to take your word it would help.” “You can’t guarantee things like that! After all, when we had all the books we needed, we still insisted on finding the highest cliff to jump off. But we do need a breather. We do need knowledge. And perhaps in a thousand years we might pick smaller cliffs to jump off. The books are to remind us what asses and fools we are. They’re Caesar’s praetorian guard, whispering as the parade roars down the avenue, ‘Remember, Caesar, thou art mortal.’ Most of us can’t rush around, talk to everyone, know all the cities of the world, we haven’t time, money or that many friends. The things you’re looking for, Montag, are in the world, but the only way the average chap will ever see ninety-nine percent of them is in a book. Don’t ask for guarantees. And don’t look to be saved in any one thing, person, machine, or library. Do your own bit of saving, and if you drown, at least die knowing you were headed for shore.” Faber got up and began to pace the room. “Well?” asked Montag.  “You’re absolutely serious?” “Absolutely.” “It’s an insidious plan, if I do say so myself.” Faber glanced nervously at his bedroom door. “To see the firehouses burn across the land, destroyed as hotbeds of treason. The salamander devours his tail! Ho, God!” “I’ve a list of firemen’s residences everywhere. With some sort of underground —” “Can’t trust people, that’s the dirty part. You and I and who else will set the fires?” “Aren’t there professors like yourself, former writers, historians, linguists... ?” “Dead or ancient?” “The older the better; they’ll go unnoticed. You know dozens, admit it!” “Oh, there are many actors alone who haven’t acted Pirandello or Shaw or Shakespeare for years because their plays are too aware of the world. We could use their anger. And we could use the honest rage of those historians who haven’t written a line for forty years. True, we might form classes in thinking and reading.” “Yes!” “But that would just nibble the edges. The whole culture’s shot through. The skeleton needs melting and reshaping. Good God, it isn’t as simple as just picking up a book you laid down half a century ago. Remember, the firemen are rarely necessary. The public itself stopped reading of its own accord. You firemen provide a circus now and then at which buildings are set off and crowds gather for the pretty blaze, but it’s a small sideshow indeed, and hardly necessary to keep things in line. So few want to be rebels anymore. And out of those few, most, like myself, scare easily. Can you dance faster than the White Clown, shout louder than ‘Mr. Gimmick’ and the parlor ‘families’? If you can, you’ll win your way, Montag. In any event, you’re a fool. People are having fun.” “Committing suicide! Murdering!” A bomber fight had been moving east all the time they talked, and only now did the two men stop and listen, feeling the great jet sound tremble inside themselves. “Patience, Montag. Let the war turn off the ‘families.’ Our civilization is flinging itself to pieces. Stand back from the centrifuge.” “There has to be someone ready when it blows up.” “What? Men quoting Milton? Saying, I remember Sophocles? Reminding the survivors that man has his good side, too? They will only gather up their stones to hurl at each other. Montag, go home. Go to bed. Why waste your final hours racing about your cage denying you’re a squirrel?” “Then you don’t care any more?” “I care so much I’m sick.” “And you won’t help me?” “Good night, good night.” Montag’s hands picked up the Bible. He saw what his hands had done and he looked surprised. “Would you like to own this?” Faber said, “I’d give my right arm.” Montag stood there and waited for the next thing to happen. His hands, by themselves, like two men working together, began to rip the pages from the book. The hands tore the flyleaf and then the first and then the second page.  “Idiot, what’re you doing!” Faber sprang up, as if he had been struck. He fell against Montag. Montag warded him off and let his hands continue. Six more pages fell to the floor. He picked them up and wadded the paper under Faber’s gaze. “Don’t, oh, don’t!” said the old man. “Who can stop me? I’m a fireman. I can burn you!” The old man stood looking at him. “You wouldn’t.” “I could!” “The book. Don’t tear it any more.” Faber sank into a chair, his face very white, his mouth trembling. “Don’t make me feel any more tired. What do you want?” “I need you to teach me.” “All right, all right.” Montag put the book down. He began to unwad the crumpled paper and flatten it out as the old man watched tiredly. Faber shook his head as if he were waking up. “Montag, have you any money?” “Some. Four, five hundred dollars. Why?” “Bring it. I know a man who printed our college paper half a century ago. That was the year I came to class at the start of the new semester and found only one student to sign up for Drama from Aeschylus to O’Neill. You see? How like a beautiful statue of ice it was, melting in the sun. I remember the newspapers dying like huge moths. No one wanted them back. No one missed them. And then the Government, seeing how advantageous it was to have people reading only about passionate lips and the fist in the stomach, circled the situation with your fire-eaters. So, Montag, there’s this unemployed printer. We might start a few books, and wait on the war to break the pattern and give us the push we need. A few bombs and the ‘families’ in the walls of all the houses, like harlequin rats, will shut up! In the silence, our stage whisper might carry.” They both stood looking at the book on the table. “I’ve tried to remember,” said Montag. “But, hell, it’s gone when I turn my head. God, how I want something to say to the Captain. He’s read enough so he has all the answers, or seems to have. His voice is like butter. I’m afraid he’ll talk me back the way I was. Only a week ago, pumping a kerosene hose, I thought: God, what fun!” The old man nodded. “Those who don’t build must burn. It’s as old as history and juvenile delinquents.” “So that’s what I am.” “There’s some of it in all of us.” Montag moved toward the front door. “Can you help me in any way tonight, with the Fire Captain? I need an umbrella to keep off the rain. I’m so damned afraid I’ll drown if he gets me again.” The old man said nothing, but glanced once more, nervously, at his bedroom. Montag caught the glance. “Well?” The old man took a deep breath, held it, and let it out. He took another, eyes closed, his mouth tight, and at last exhaled. “Montag....” The old man turned at last and said, “Come along. I would actually have let you walk right out of my house. I am a cowardly old fool.” Faber opened the bedroom door and led Montag into a small chamber where stood a table upon which a number of metal tools lay among a welter of microscopic wire hairs, tiny coils, bobbins and crystals.  “What’s this?” asked Montag. “Proof of my terrible cowardice. I’ve lived alone so many years, throwing images on walls with my imagination. Fiddling with electronics, radio transmission, has been my hobby. My cowardice is of such a passion, complementing the revolutionary spirit that lives in its shadow, I was forced to design this.” He picked up a small green metal object no larger than a.22 bullet. “I paid for all this—how? Playing the stock market, of course, the last refuge in the world for the dangerous intellectual out of a job. Well, I played the market and built all this and I’ve waited. I’ve waited, trembling, half a lifetime for someone to speak to me. I dared speak to no one. That day in the park when we sat together, I knew that some day you might drop by, with fire or friendship, it was hard to guess. I’ve had this little item ready for months. But I almost let you go, I’m that afraid!” “It looks like a Seashell Radio.” “And something more! It listens! If you put it in your ear, Montag, I can sit comfortably home, warming my frightened bones, and hear and analyze the firemen’s world, find its weaknesses, without danger. I’m the Queen Bee, safe in the hive. You will be the drone, the traveling ear. Eventually, I could put out ears into all parts of the city, with various men, listening and evaluating. If the drones die, I’m still safe at home, tending my fright with a maximum of comfort and a minimum of chance. See how safe I play it, how contemptible I am?” Montag placed the green bullet in his ear. The old man inserted a similar object in his own ear and moved his lips. “Montag!”  The voice was in Montag’s head. “I hear you!” The old man laughed. “You’re coming over fine, too!” Faber whispered, but the voice in Montag’s head was clear. “Go to the firehouse when it’s time. I’ll be with you. Let’s listen to this Captain Beatty together. He could be one of us. God knows. I’ll give you things to say. We’ll give him a good show. Do you hate me for this electronic cowardice of mine? Here I am sending you out into the night, while I stay behind the lines with my damned ears listening for you to get your head chopped off.” “We all do what we do,” said Montag. He put the Bible in the old man’s hands. “Here. I’ll chance turning in a substitute. Tomorrow—” “I’ll see the unemployed printer, yes; that much I can do.” “Good night, Professor.” “Not good night. I’ll be with you the rest of the night, a vinegar gnat tickling your ear when you need me. But good night and good luck, anyway.” The door opened and shut. Montag was in the dark street again, looking at the world. ººº You could feel the war getting ready in the sky that night. The way the clouds moved aside and came back, and the way the stars looked, a million of them swimming between the clouds, like the enemy disks, and the feeling that the sky might fall upon the city and turn it to chalk dust, and the moon go up in red fire; that was how the night felt.  Montag walked from the subway with the money in his pocket (he had visited the bank which was open all night every night with robot tellers in attendance) and as he walked he was listening to the Seashell Radio in one ear.... “We have mobilized a million men. Quick victory is ours if the war comes....” Music flooded over the voice quickly and it was gone. “Ten million men mobilized,” Faber’s voice whispered in his other ear. “But say one million. It’s happier.” “Faber?” “Yes?” “I’m not thinking. I’m just doing like I’m told, like always. You said get the money and I got it. I didn’t really think of it myself. When do I start working things out on my own?” “You’ve started already, by saying what you just said. You’ll have to take me on faith.” “I took the others on faith!” “Yes, and look where we’re headed. You’ll have to travel blind for awhile. Here’s my arm to hold onto.” “I don’t want to change sides and just be told what to do. There’s no reason to change if I do that.” “You’re wise already!” Montag felt his feet moving him on the sidewalk toward his house. “Keep talking.” “Would you like me to read? I’ll read so you can remember. I go to bed only five hours a night. Nothing to do. So if you like, I’ll read you to sleep nights. They say you retain knowledge even when you’re sleeping, if someone whispers it in your ear.” “Yes.” “Here.” Far away across town in the night, the faintest whisper of a turned page. “The Book of Job.” The moon rose in the sky as Montag walked, his lips moving just a trifle. ººº He was eating a light supper at nine in the evening when the front door cried out in the hall and Mildred ran from the parlor like a native fleeing an eruption of Vesuvius. Mrs. Phelps and Mrs. Bowles came through the front door and vanished into the volcano’s mouth with martinis in their hands. Montag stopped eating. They were like a monstrous crystal chandelier tinkling in a thousand chimes, he saw their Cheshire cat smiles burning through the walls of the house, and now they were screaming at each other above the din. Montag found himself at the parlor door with his food still in his mouth. “Doesn’t everyone look nice!” “Nice.” “You look fine, Millie!” “Fine.” “Everyone looks swell.” “Swell!” Montag stood watching them. “Patience,” whispered Faber.  “I shouldn’t be here,” whispered Montag, almost to himself. “I should be on my way back to you with the money!” “Tomorrow’s time enough. Careful!” “Isn’t this show wonderful?” cried Mildred. “Wonderful!” On one wall a woman smiled and drank orange juice simultaneously. How does she do both at once, thought Montag, insanely. In the other walls an X ray of the same woman revealed the contracting journey of the refreshing beverage on its way to her delighted stomach! Abruptly the room took off on a rocket flight into the clouds; it plunged into a lime-green sea where blue fish ate red and yellow fish. A minute later, three White Cartoon Clowns chopped off each other’s limbs to the accompaniment of immense incoming tides of laughter. Two minutes more and the room whipped out of town to the jet cars wildly circling an arena, bashing and backing up and bashing each other again. Montag saw a number of bodies fly in the air. “Millie, did you see that?” “I saw it, I saw it!” Montag reached inside the parlor wall and pulled the main switch. The images drained away, as if the water had been let from a gigantic crystal bowl of hysterical fish. The three women turned slowly and looked with unconcealed irritation and then dislike at Montag. “When do you suppose the war will start?” he said. “I notice your husbands aren’t here tonight.”  “Oh, they come and go, come and go,” said Mrs. Phelps. “In again out again Finnegan, the Army called Pete yesterday. He’ll be back next week. The Army said so. Quick war. Forty-eight hours they said, and everyone home. That’s what the Army said. Quick war. Pete was called yesterday and they said he’d be back next week. Quick....” The three women fidgeted and looked nervously at the empty mud-colored walls. “I’m not worried,” said Mrs. Phelps. “I’ll let Pete do all the worrying.” She giggled. “I’ll let old Pete do all the worrying. Not me. I’m not worried.” “It’s always someone else’s husband dies, they say.” “I’ve heard that, too. I’ve never known any dead man killed in a war. Killed jumping off buildings, yes, like Gloria’s husband last week, but from wars? No.” “Not from wars,” said Mrs. Phelps. “Anyway, Pete and I always said, no tears, nothing like that. It’s our third marriage each and we’re independent. Be independent, we always said. He said, if I get killed off, you just go right ahead and don’t cry, but get married again, and don’t think of me.” “That reminds me,” said Mildred. “Did you see that Clara Dove five-minute romance last night in your wall? Well, it was all about this woman who—” Montag said nothing but stood looking at the women’s faces as he had once looked at the face of saints in a strange church he had entered when he was a child. The faces of those enameled creatures meant nothing to him, though he talked to them and stood in that church for a long time, trying to be of that religion, trying to know what that religion was, trying to get enough of the raw incense and special dust of the place into his lungs and thus into his blood to feel touched and concerned by the meaning of the colorful men and women with the porcelain eyes and the blood-ruby lips. But there was nothing, nothing; it was a stroll through another store, and his currency strange and unusable there, and his passion cold, even when he touched the wood and plaster and clay. So it was now, in his own parlor, with these women twisting in their chairs under his gaze, lighting cigarettes, blowing smoke, touching their sun-fired hair and examining their blazing fingernails as if they had caught fire from his look. Their faces grew haunted with silence. They leaned forward at the sound of Montag’s swallowing his final bite of food. They listened to his feverish breathing. The three empty walls of the room were like the pale brows of sleeping giants now, empty of dreams. Montag felt that if you touched these three staring brows, you would feel a fine salt sweat on your fingertips. The perspiration gathered with the silence and the subaudible trembling around and about and in the women who were burning with tension. Any moment they might hiss a long sputtering hiss and explode. Montag moved his lips. “Let’s talk.” The women jerked and stared. “How’re your children, Mrs. Phelps?” he asked. “You know I haven’t any! No one in his right mind, the Good Lord knows, would have children!” said Mrs. Phelps, not quite sure why she was angry with this man. “I wouldn’t say that,” said Mrs. Bowles. “I’ve had two children by Caesarean section. No use going through all that agony for a baby. The world must reproduce, you know, the race must go on. Besides, they sometimes look just like you, and that’s nice. Two Caesareans turned the trick, yes, sir. Oh, my doctor said, Caesareans aren’t necessary; you’ve got the hips for it, everything’s normal, but I insisted.” “Caesareans or not, children are ruinous; you’re out of your mind,” said Mrs. Phelps. “I plunk the children in school nine days out of ten. I put up with them when they come home three days a month; it’s not bad at all. You heave them into the ‘parlor’ and turn the switch. It’s like washing clothes; stuff laundry in and slam the lid.” Mrs. Bowles tittered. “They’d just as soon kick as kiss me. Thank God, I can kick back!” The women showed their tongues, laughing. Mildred sat a moment and then, seeing that Montag was still in the doorway, clapped her hands. “Let’s talk politics, to please Guy!” “Sounds fine,” said Mrs. Bowles. “I voted last election, same as everyone, and I laid it on the line for President Noble. I think he’s one of the nicest looking men ever became president.” “Oh, but the man they ran against him!” “He wasn’t much, was he? Kind of small and homely and he didn’t shave too close or comb his hair very well.” “What possessed the ‘Outs’ to run him? You just don’t go running a little short man like that against a tall man. Besides—he mumbled. Half the time I couldn’t hear a word he said. And the words I did hear I didn’t understand!” “Fat, too, and didn’t dress to hide it. No wonder the landslide was for Winston Noble. Even their names helped. Compare Winston Noble to Hubert Hoag for ten seconds and you can almost figure the results.” “Damn it!” cried Montag. “What do you know about Hoag and Noble!”  “Why, they were right in that parlor wall, not six months ago. One was always picking his nose; it drove me wild.” “Well, Mr. Montag,” said Mrs. Phelps, “do you want us to vote for a man like that?” Mildred beamed. “You just run away from the door, Guy, and don’t make us nervous.” But Montag was gone and back in a moment with a book in his hand. “Guy!” “Damn it all, damn it all, damn it!” “What’ve you got there; isn’t that a book? I thought that all special training these days was done by film.” Mrs. Phelps blinked. “You reading up on fireman theory?” “Theory, hell,” said Montag. “It’s poetry.” “Montag.” A whisper. “Leave me alone!” Montag felt himself turning in a great circling roar and buzz and hum. “Montag, hold on, don’t...” “Did you hear them, did you hear these monsters talking about monsters? Oh God, the way they jabber about people and their own children and themselves and the way they talk about their husbands and the way they talk about war, dammit, I stand here and I can’t believe it!” “I didn’t say a single word about any war, I’ll have you know,” said Mrs. Phelps. “As for poetry, I hate it,” said Mrs. Bowles. “Have you ever heard any?”  “Montag,” Faber’s voice scraped away at him. “You’ll ruin everything. Shut up, you fool!” All three women were on their feet. “Sit down!” They sat. “I’m going home,” quavered Mrs. Bowles. “Montag, Montag, please, in the name of God, what’re you up to?” pleaded Faber. “Why don’t you just read us one of those poems from your little book.” Mrs. Phelps nodded. “I think that’d be very interesting.” “That’s not right,” wailed Mrs. Bowles. “We can’t do that!” “Well, look at Mr. Montag, he wants to, I know he does. And if we listen nice, Mr. Montag will be happy and then maybe we can go on and do something else.” She glanced nervously at the long emptiness of the walls enclosing them. “Montag, go through with this and I’ll cut off, I’ll leave.” The beetle jabbed his ear. “What good is this, what’ll you prove!” “Scare hell out of them, that’s what, scare the living daylights out!” Mildred looked at the empty air. “Now, Guy, just who are you talking to?” A silver needle pierced his brain. “Montag, listen, only one way out, play it as a joke, cover up, pretend you aren’t mad at all. Then—walk to your wall incinerator, and throw the book in!” Mildred had already anticipated this in a quavery voice. “Ladies, once a year, every fireman’s allowed to bring one book home, from the old days, to show his family how silly it all was, how nervous that sort of thing can make you, how crazy. Guy’s surprise tonight is to read you one sample to show how mixed up things were, so none of us will ever have to bother our little old heads about that junk again, isn’t that right, darling?” He crushed the book in his fists. “Say ‘yes’.” His mouth moved like Faber’s: “Yes.” Mildred snatched the book with a laugh. “Here! Read this one. No, I take it back. Here’s that real funny one you read out loud today. Ladies, you won’t understand a word. It goes umpty-tumpty-ump. Go ahead, Guy, that page, dear.” He looked at the opened page. A fly stirred its wings softly in his ear. “Read.” “What’s the title, dear?” “Dover Beach.” His mouth was numb. “Now read in a nice clear voice and go slow.” The room was blazing hot, he was all fire, he was all coldness; they sat in the middle of an empty desert with three chairs and him standing, swaying, and him waiting for Mrs. Phelps to stop straightening her dress hem and Mrs. Bowles to take her fingers away from her hair. Then he began to read in a low, stumbling voice that grew firmer as he progressed from line to line, and his voice went out across the desert, into the whiteness, and around the three sitting women there in the great hot emptiness. The Sea of Faith Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled. But now I only hear Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, Retreating, to the breath Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear And naked shingles of the world. The chairs creaked under the three women. Montag finished it out: Ah, love, let us be true To one another! for the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; And we are here as on a darkling plain Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, Where ignorant armies clash by night. Mrs. Phelps was crying. The others in the middle of the desert watched her crying grow very loud as her face squeezed itself out of shape. They sat, not touching her, bewildered with her display. She sobbed uncontrollably. Montag himself was stunned and shaken. “Sh, sh,” said Mildred. “You’re all right, Clara, now, Clara, snap out of it! Clara, what’s wrong?”  “I—I,” sobbed Mrs. Phelps, “don’t know, don’t know, I just don’t know, oh, oh....” Mrs. Bowles stood up and glared at Montag. “You see? I knew it, that’s what I wanted to prove! I knew it would happen! I’ve always said, poetry and tears, poetry and suicide and crying and awful feelings, poetry and sickness; all that mush! Now I’ve had it proved to me. You’re nasty, Mr. Montag, you’re nasty!” Faber said, “Now...” Montag felt himself turn and walk to the wall slot and drop the book in through the brass notch to the waiting flames. “Silly words, silly words, silly awful hurting words,” said Mrs. Bowles. “Why do people want to hurt people? Not enough hurt in the world, you got to tease people with stuff like that!” “Clara, now, Clara,” begged Mildred, pulling her arm. “Come on, let’s be cheery, you turn the ‘family’ on, now. Go ahead. Let’s laugh and be happy, now, stop crying, we’ll have a party!” “No,” said Mrs. Bowles. “I’m trotting right straight home. You want to visit my house and my ‘family,’ well and good. But I won’t come in this fireman’s crazy house again in my lifetime!” “Go home.” Montag fixed his eyes upon her, quietly. “Go home and think of your first husband divorced and your second husband killed in a jet and your third husband blowing his brains out, go home and think of the dozen abortions you’ve had, go home and think of that and your damn Caesarean sections, too, and your children who hate your guts! Go home and think how it all happened and what did you ever do to stop it? Go home, go home!” he yelled. “Before I knock you down and kick you out the door!”  Doors slammed and the house was empty. Montag stood alone in the winter weather, with the parlor walls the color of dirty snow. In the bathroom, water ran. He heard Mildred shake the sleeping tablets into her hand. “Fool, Montag, fool, fool, oh God you silly fool....” “Shut up!” He pulled the green bullet from his ear and jammed it into his pocket. It sizzled faintly, “... fool... fool....” He searched the house and found the books where Mildred had stacked them behind the refrigerator. Some were missing and he knew that she had started on her own slow process of dispersing the dynamite in her house, stick by stick. But he was not angry now, only exhausted and bewildered with himself. He carried the books into the backyard and hid them in the bushes near the alley fence. For tonight only, he thought, in case she decides to d