451 по фаренгейту
It was a pleasure to burn
AndinherearsthelittleSeashells,thethimbleradiostampedtight,andanelectronicoceanofsound,ofmusicandtalkandmusicandtalkcomingin,cominginontheshoreofherunsleepingmind. Theroomwasindeedempty. Everynightthewavescameinandboreheroffontheirgreattidesofsound,floatingher,wide-eyed,towardmorning. TherehadbeennonightinthelasttwoyearsthatMildredhadnotswumthatsea,hadnotgladlygonedowninitforthethirdtime.
Theroomwascoldbutnonethelesshefelthecouldnotbreathe. Hedidnotwishtoopenthecurtainsandopenthefrenchwindows,forhedidnotwantthemoontocomeintotheroom. So,withthefeelingofamanwhowilldieinthenexthourforlackofair,hefelthiswaytowardhisopen,separate,andthereforecoldbed.
Aninstantbeforehisfoothittheobjectonthefloorheknewhewouldhitsuchanobject. Itwasnotunlikethefeelinghehadexperiencedbeforeturningthecornerandalmostknockingthegirldown. Hisfoot,sendingvibrationsahead,receivedbackechoesofthesmallbarrieracrossitspathevenasthefootswung. Hisfootkicked. Theobjectgaveadullclinkandslidoffindarkness.
Hestoodverystraightandlistenedtothepersononthedarkbedinthecompletelyfeaturelessnight. Thebreathcomingoutofthenostrilswassofaintitstirredonlythefurthestfringesoflife,asmallleaf,ablackfeather,asinglefibreofhair.
Hestilldidnotwantoutsidelight. Hepulledouthisigniter,feltthesalamanderetchedonitssilverdisc,gaveitaflick....
