Fahrenheit 451 Part 1 Reading Questions Answers the Daring English Teacher
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Too by Ray Bradbury
NOVELS
The Martian Chronicles Fahrenheit 451
Dandelion Wine
Something Wicked This Way Comes Death Is a Alone Concern A Graveyard for Lunatics Green Shadows, White Whale From the Dust Returned Permit's All Kill Constance Cheerio Summer
Ahmed and the Oblivion Machines: A Fable SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS
Dark Carnival
The Illustrated Man
The Gilt Apples of the Sun The October Country
A Medicine for Melancholy R is for Dissonance
The Machineries of Joy The Autumn People
The Vintage Bradbury Due south is for Space
Twice 22
I Sing the Body Electric Long After Midnight
The Small-scale Assassin
The Mummies of Guanajuato Beyond 1984: Remembrance of Things Future The Attic Where the Meadow Greens The Ghosts of Forever The Last Circus and the Electrocution The Stories of Ray Bradbury The Consummate Poems of Ray Bradbury The Love Affair
Dinosaur Tales
A Retentivity of Murder
The Climate of Palettes Classic Stories 1
Classic Stories ii
Quicker Than the Eye Driving Blind
Ray Bradbury Collected Short Stories One More for the Road Bradbury Stories
The Cat's Pajamas
The Sound of Thunder and Other Stories The Dragon Who Ate His Tale Now and Forever
Summer Morning, Summer Night We'll Ever Have Paris A Pleasure to Burn
NONFICTION
The Essence of Creative Writing Zen and the Art of Writing The God in Scientific discipline Fiction Yestermorrow
Bradburry Speaks
SIMON & SCHUSTER
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This book is a piece of work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Whatever resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or expressionless, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright (c) 1951, 1953, 1967 past Ray Bradbury
Copyright renewed (c) 1979, 1981, 1995 by Ray Bradbury
A shorter version of Fahrenheit 451 appeared in Galaxy Scientific discipline Fiction under the championship The Fireman, copyright (c) 1950 by World Editions, Inc.
Copyright renewed 1978 by Ray Bradbury.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For data, address Simon & Schuster Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Artery of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.
First Simon & Schuster hardcover edition January 2012
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ISBN 978-ane-4516-7326-5
ISBN: 978-one-4516-7331-9 (pbk)
eISBN: 978-1-43914267-7
This one, with gratitude, is for
DON CONGDON
Contents
one: The Hearth and the Salamander
two: The Sieve and the Sand
three: Called-for Vivid
one
The Hearth
and the Salamander
It was a pleasure to burn.
It was a special pleasure to come across things eaten, to meet things blackened and inverse. With the contumely nozzle in his fists, with this great python spitting its venomous kerosene upon the globe, the claret pounded in his head, and his easily were the easily of some amazing conductor playing all the symphonies of blazing and called-for to bring down the tatters and charcoal ruins of history. With his symbolic helmet numbered 451 on his stolid head, and his eyes all orange flame with the thought of what came next, he flicked the igniter and the house jumped upwardly in a gorging burn that burned the evening sky red and yellow and black. He strode in a swarm of fireflies. He wanted above all, like the old joke, to shove a marshmallow on a stick in the furnace, while the flapping dove-winged books died on the porch and lawn of the house. While the books went up in sparkling whirls and blew away on a wind turned nighttime with burning.
Montag grinned the fierce smile of all men singed and driven back by flame. He knew that when he returned to the firehouse, he might wink at himself, a minstrel homo, burnt-corked, in the mirror. Afterward, going to sleep, he would experience the fiery smile still gripped past his face muscles, in the dark. It never went away, that smiling, information technology never e'er went away, as long as he remembered.
He hung up his black protrude-colored helmet and shined it; he hung his flameproof jacket neatly; he showered luxuriously, then, whistling, hands in pockets, walked across the upper floor of the fire station and cruel down the pigsty. At the last moment, when disaster seemed positive, he pulled his hands from his pockets and bankrupt his autumn by grasping the gilded pole. He slid to a squeaking halt, the heels one inch from the concrete floor downstairs.
He walked out of the burn station and forth the midnight street toward the subway where the silent air-propelled train slid soundlessly down its lubricated flue in the globe and let him out with a great puff of warm air onto the foam-tiled escalator rising to the suburb.
Whistling, he let the escalator waft him into the still nighttime air. He walked toward the corner, thinking little at all about nix in particular. Before he reached the corner, however, he slowed every bit if a wind had sprung up from nowhere, as if someone had called his proper noun.
The final few nights he had had the most uncertain feelings about the sidewalk merely around the corner here, moving in the starlight toward his house. He had felt that a moment prior to his making the turn, someone had been at that place. The air seemed charged with a special at-home equally if someone had waited there, quietly, and simply a moment earlier he came, simply turned to a shadow and allow him through. Perhaps his nose detected a faint perfume, perhaps the skin on the backs of his hands, on his face, felt the temperature ascent at this one spot where a person's continuing might raise the immediate temper ten degrees for an instant. There was no understanding it. Each fourth dimension he made the turn, he saw only the white, unused, buckling sidewalk, with maybe, on one night, something vanishing swiftly across a lawn before he could focus his optics or speak.
Merely now this evening, he slowed nigh to a terminate. His inner mind, reaching out to plough the corner for him, had heard the faintest whisper. Breathing? Or was the atmosphere compressed merely by someone continuing very quietly there, waiting?
He turned the corner.
The fall leaves blew over the moonlit pavement in such a way equally to brand the girl who was moving there seem fixed to a sliding walk, letting the motion of the current of air and the leaves deport her frontwards. Her head was half bent to watch her shoes stir the circling leaves. Her confront was slender and milk-white, and in information technology was a kind of gentle hunger that touched over everything with tireless marvel. Information technology was a look, well-nigh, of stake surprise; the dark optics were then stock-still to the world that no motility escaped them. Her wearing apparel was white and it whispered. He about thought he heard the motion of her hands equally she walked, and the infinitely small-scale sound at present, the white stir of her face turning when she discovered she was a moment abroad from a man who stood in the heart of the pavement waiting.
The trees overhead made a great sound of letting down their dry pelting. The daughter stopped and looked as if she might pull back in surprise, simply instead stood regarding Montag with eyes and so night
and shining and alive, that he felt he had said something quite wonderful. But he knew his mouth had only moved to say hello, and then when she seemed hypnotized past the salamander on his arm and the phoenix-disc on his chest, he spoke once again.
"Of course," he said, "you're our new neighbor, aren't you?"
"And yous must be--" she raised her eyes from his professional symbols "--the fireman." Her vocalisation trailed off.
"How oddly you say that."
"I'd--I'd accept known it with my eyes shut," she said, slowly.
"What--the odour of kerosene? My wife always complains," he laughed. "You never wash it off completely."
"No, you lot don't," she said, in awe.
He felt she was walking in a circumvolve about him, turning him end for stop, shaking him quietly, and emptying his pockets, without once moving herself.
"Kerosene," he said, considering the silence had lengthened, "is nothing but perfume to me."
"Does it seem similar that, really?"
"Of course. Why not?"
She gave herself time to think of it. "I don't know." She turned to face the sidewalk going toward their homes. "Practise y'all mind if I walk back with you lot? I'm Clarisse McClellan."
"Clarisse. Guy Montag. Come along. What are you doing out so tardily wandering effectually? How old are yous?"
They walked in the warm-cool blowing night on the silvered pavement and at that place was the faintest jiff of fresh apricots and strawberries in the air, and he looked effectually and realized this was quite impossible, so tardily in the year.
There was only the daughter walking with him at present, her face up bright as snow in the moonlight, and he knew she was working his questions effectually, seeking the all-time answers she could possibly give.
"Well," she said, "I'chiliad seventeen and I'm crazy. My uncle says the two always go together. When people inquire your age, he said, ever say seventeen and insane. Isn't this a dainty fourth dimension of night to walk? I like to odour things and look at things, and sometimes stay up all night, walking, and sentry the sunday ascension."
They walked on once again in silence and finally she said, thoughtfully, "You know, I'g non agape of you lot at all."
He was surprised. "Why should you be?"
"And so many people are. Afraid of firemen, I mean. Simply you're just a man, after allon again too soon. . . ."
He saw himself in her eyes, suspended in 2 shining drops of bright water, himself nighttime and tiny, in fine detail, the lines about his mouth, everything there, as if her eyes were two miraculous bits of violet amber that might capture and concord him intact. Her face, turned to him now, was frail milk crystal with a soft and constant light in it. Information technology was not the hysterical light of electricity only--what? But the strangely comfortable and rare and gently flattering low-cal of the candle. 1 time, every bit a kid, in a power failure, his female parent had plant and lit a last candle and there had been a cursory 60 minutes of rediscovery, of such illumination that space lost its vast dimensions and drew comfortably around them, and they, mother and son, solitary, transformed, hoping that the power might not come on again too soon. . . .
And and then Clarisse McClellan said:
"Do you mind if I inquire? How long've you worked at existence a fireman?"
"Since I was xx, x years ago."
"Do yous ever read whatever of the books you burn?"
He laughed. "That's confronting the law!"
"Oh. Of course."
"Information technology'southward fine work. Monday burn down Millay, Midweek Whitman, Friday Faulkner, burn 'em to ashes, then fire the ashes. That's our official slogan."
They walked yet further and the girl said, "Is it true that long ago firemen put fires out instead of going to start them?"
"No. Houses have always been fireproof, take my word for information technology."
"Strange. I heard one time that a long time ago houses used to burn by accident and they needed firemen to stop the flames."
He laughed.
She glanced quickly over. "Why are you laughing?"
"I don't know." He started to express joy over again and stopped. "Why?"
"Yous laugh when I oasis't been funny and you answer right off. Yous never terminate to think what I've asked you."
He stopped walking. "You are an odd ane," he said, looking at her. "Haven't you any respect?"
"I don't hateful to be insulting. It's simply I love to scout people too much, I judge."
"Well, doesn't this mean anything to you?" He tapped the numerals 451 stitched on his char-colored sleeve.
"Yeah," she whispered. She increased her pace. "Take you lot always watched the jet cars racing on the boulevards down that way?"
"You lot're changing the subject field!"
"I sometimes think drivers don't know what grass is, or flowers, because they never see them slowly," she said. "If you lot showed a driver a dark-green blur, Oh yeah! he'd say, that's grass! A pinkish mistiness? That'southward a rose garden! White blurs are houses. Chocolate-brown blurs are cows. My uncle drove slowly on a highway one time. He drove forty miles an hr and they jailed him for two days. Isn't that funny, and lamentable, too?"
"You remember besides many things," said Montag, uneasily.
"I rarely sentry the 'parlor walls' or become to races or Fun Parks. So I've lots of time for crazy thoughts, I guess. Have you seen the two-hundred-foot-long billboards in the state beyond boondocks? Did you know that in one case billboards were only 20 feet long? Only cars started rushing by so quickly they had to stretch the advertising out so it would last."
"I didn't know that!" Montag laughed abruptly.
"Bet I know something else you don't. At that place's dew on the grass in the morning."
He suddenly couldn't call back if he had known this or not, and information technology fabricated him quite irritable.
"And if you look"--she nodded at the sky--"in that location's a human being in the moon."
He hadn't looked for a long time.
They walked the balance of the style in silence, hers thoughtful, his a kind of clenching and uncomfortable silence in which he shot her accusing glances. When they reached her firm all its lights were blazing.
"What's going on?" Montag had rarely seen that many firm lights.
"Oh, just my mother and father and uncle sitting around, talking. It's like being a pedestrian, but rarer. My uncle was arrested another fourth dimension--did I tell you?--for existence a pedestrian. Oh, nosotros're most peculiar."
"But what exercise you talk most?"
She laughed at this. "Good night!" She started up her walk. And so she seemed to remember something and came back to look at him with wonder and marvel. "Are y'all happy?" she said.
"Am I what?" he cried.
Only she was gone--running in the moonlight. Her front door shut gently.
"Happy! Of all the nonsense."
He stopped laughing.
He put his hand into the glove hole of his front door and let it know his impact. The front door slid open.
Of grade I'm happy. What does she call back? I'm not? he asked the quiet rooms. He stood looking up at the ventilator grill in the hall and all of a sudden remembered that something lay hidden backside the grill, something that seemed to peer down at him now. He moved his eyes quickly away.
What a strange coming together on a foreign night. He remembered null like it salve ane afternoon a twelvemonth ago when he had met an old homo in the park and they had talked. . . .
Montag shook his head. He looked at a blank wall. The daughter'due south confront was there, really quite beautiful in memory: astonishing, in fact. She had a very thin confront like the punch of a modest clock seen faintly in a dark room in the middle of a dark when you waken to run across the time and see the clock telling you the hr and the infinitesimal and the second, with a white silence and a glowing, all certainty and knowing what it has to tell of the night passing swiftly on toward further darknesses, but moving as well toward a new sun.
"What?" asked Montag of that other self, the subconscious idiot that ran babbling at times, quite contained of will, addiction, and conscience.
He glanced back at the wall. How like a mirror, too, her face. Impossible; for how many people did you know that refracted your ain lite to you lot? People were more than often--he searched for a simile, found one in his piece of work--torches, blazing away until they whiffed out. How rarely did
other people's faces take of you and throw back to you your own expression, your own innermost trembling thought?
What incredible ability of identification the girl had; she was like the eager watcher of a marionette prove, anticipating each flicker of an eyelid, each gesture of his paw, each flick of a finger, the moment before it began. How long had they walked together? Three minutes? V? Nonetheless how big that time seemed at present. How immense a figure she was on the phase earlier him; what a shadow she threw on the wall with her slender trunk! He felt that if his middle itched, she might blink. And if the muscles of his jaws stretched imperceptibly, she would yawn long before he would.
Why, he thought, now that I call up of it, she almost seemed to be waiting for me there, in the street, so damned late at night. . . .
He opened the bedroom door.
It was like coming into the cold marbled room of a mausoleum later on the moon has set. Complete darkness, not a hint of the silverish world outside, the windows tightly shut, the chamber a tomb-globe where no sound from the bully metropolis could penetrate. The room was non empty.
He listened.
The little mosquito-delicate dancing hum in the air, the electrical murmur of a hidden wasp snug in its special pinkish warm nest. The music was nearly loud plenty so he could follow the tune.
He felt his grin slide away, melt, fold over and down on itself like a tallow pare, like the stuff of a fantastic candle burning also long and now collapsing and now blown out. Darkness. He was not happy. He was non happy. He said the words to himself. He recognized this as the true situation. He wore his happiness like a mask and the girl had run off across the backyard with the mask and there was no way of going to knock on her door and enquire for information technology back.
Without turning on the light he imagined how this room would look. His wife stretched on the bed, uncovered and cold, like a trunk displayed on the lid of a tomb, her eyes fixed to the ceiling past invisible threads of steel, immovable. And in her ears the trivial Seashells, the thimble radios tamped tight, and an electronic ocean of sound, of music and talk and music and talk coming in, coming in on the shore of her unsleeping mind. The room was indeed empty. Every night the waves came in and bore her off on their great tides of sound, floating her, broad-eyed, toward morning. There had been no nighttime in the terminal two years that Mildred had non swum that sea, had not gladly gone downwards in it for the 3rd time.
The room was common cold but even so he felt he could non breathe. He did not wish to open the drapes and open the French windows, for he did not want the moon to come into the room. And then, with the feeling of a homo who will die in the next hour for lack of air, he felt his way toward his open up, separate, and therefore cold bed.
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