451 по фаренгейту
Burning Bright
Ittookthebetterpartoffifteenminutesbeforehedrewverycloseindeedtoit,andthenhestoodlookingatitfromcover. Thatsmallmotion,thewhiteandredcolour, astrangefirebecauseitmeantadifferentthingtohim.
Itwasnotburning;itwaswarming!
Hesawmanyhandsheldtoitswarmth,handswithoutarms,hiddenindarkness. Abovethehands,motionlessfacesthatwereonlymovedandtossedandflickeredwithfirelight. Hehadn’tknownfirecouldlookthisway. Hehadneverthoughtinhislifethatitcouldgiveaswellastake. Evenitssmellwasdifferent.
Howlonghestoodhedidnotknow,buttherewasafoolishandyetdelicioussenseofknowinghimselfasananimalcomefromtheforest,drawnbythefire. Hewasathingofbrushandliquideye, offurandmuzzleandhoof,hewasathingofhorn andbloodthatwouldsmelllikeautumnifyoubleditoutontheground. Hestoodalonglongtime,listeningtothewarmcrackleoftheflames.
Therewasasilencegatheredallaboutthatfireandthesilencewasinthemen’sfaces, andtimewasthere,timeenoughtositbythisrustingtrackunderthetrees, andlookattheworldandturnitoverwiththeeyes, asifitwereheldtothecentreofthebonfire, apieceofsteelthesemenwereallshaping. Itwasnotonlythefirethatwasdifferent. Itwasthesilence. Montagmovedtowardthisspecialsilencethatwasconcernedwithalloftheworld.
Andthenthevoicesbeganandtheyweretalking,andhecouldhearnothingofwhatthevoicessaid, butthesoundroseandfellquietlyandthevoiceswereturningtheworldoverandlookingatit; thevoicesknewthelandandthetreesandthecitywhichlaydownthetrackbytheriver.
