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. 

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