451 по фаренгейту
It was a pleasure to burn
Montaglookedatthesemenwhosefacesweresunburntbyathousandrealandtenthousandimaginaryfires,whoseworkflushedtheircheeksandfeveredtheireyes. Thesemenwholookedsteadilyintotheirplatinumigniterflamesastheylittheireternallyburningblackpipes. Theyandtheircharcoalhairandsoot-colouredbrowsandbluish-ash-smearedcheekswheretheyhadshavenclose;buttheirheritageshowed. Montagstartedup,hismouthopened. Hadheeverseenafiremanthatdidn’thaveblackhair,blackbrows,afieryface,andablue-steelshavedbutunshavedlook? Thesemenwereallmirror-imagesofhimself! Wereallfiremenpickedthenfortheirlooksaswellastheirproclivities? Thecolourofcindersandashaboutthem,andthecontinualsmellofburningfromtheirpipes. CaptainBeattythere,risinginthunderheadsoftobaccosmoke. Beattyopeningafreshtobaccopacket,crumplingthecellophaneintoasoundoffire.
Montaglookedatthecardsinhisownhands. "I—I’vebeenthinking.Aboutthefirelastweek.Aboutthemanwhoselibrarywefixed.Whathappenedtohim?"
"Theytookhimscreamingofftotheasylum."
"Hewasn’tinsane."
Beattyarrangedhiscardsquietly. "Anyman’sinsanewhothinkshecanfooltheGovernmentandus."
"I’vetriedtoimagine,"saidMontag,"justhowitwouldfeel.Imeantohavefiremenburnourhousesandourbooks."
"Wehaven’tanybooks."
