451 по фаренгейту

           Montagwalkedbutdidnotfeelhisfeettouchthecementandthenthenightgrasses. Beattyflickedhisigniternearbyandthesmallorangeflamedrewhisfascinatedgaze. 

           "Whatisthereaboutfirethat’ssolovely? Nomatterwhatageweare,whatdrawsustoit?" Beattyblewouttheflameandlititagain. "It’sperpetualmotion; thethingmanwantedtoinventbutneverdid. Oralmostperpetualmotion. Ifyouletitgoon,it’dburnourlifetimesout. Whatisfire?It’samystery. Scientistsgiveusgobbledegookaboutfrictionandmolecules.Buttheydon’treallyknow. Itsrealbeautyisthatitdestroysresponsibilityandconsequences. Aproblemgetstooburdensome,thenintothefurnacewithit. Now,Montag,you’reaburden. Andfirewillliftyouoffmyshoulders,clean,quick,sure; nothingtorotlater.Antibiotic,aesthetic,practical." 

           Montagstoodlookinginnowatthisqueerhouse,madestrangebythehourofthenight, bymurmuringneighbourvoices,bylitteredglass,andthereonthefloor, theircoverstornoffandspilledoutlikeswan-feathers, theincrediblebooksthatlookedsosillyandreallynotworthbotheringwith, forthesewerenothingbutblacktypeandyellowedpaper,andravelledbinding. 

           Mildred,ofcourse. Shemusthavewatchedhimhidethebooksinthegardenandbroughtthembackin. Mildred.Mildred. 

           "Iwantyoutodothisjoballbyyourlonesome,Montag. Notwithkeroseneandamatch,butpiecework,withaflamethrower. Yourhouse,yourclean-up." 

           "Montag,can’tyourun,getaway!" 

           "No!"criedMontaghelplessly."TheHound!BecauseoftheHound!" 

           Faberheard,andBeatty,thinkingitwasmeantforhim,heard. "Yes,theHound’ssomewhereabouttheneighbourhood,sodon’ttryanything. Ready?"