451 по фаренгейту
It was a pleasure to burn
"Butifwedidhavesome."
"Yougotsome?"
Beattyblinkedslowly.
"No."Montaggazedbeyondthemtothewallwiththetypedlistsofamillionforbiddenbooks. Theirnamesleaptinfire,burningdowntheyearsunderhisaxeandhishosewhichsprayednotwaterbutkerosene. "No."Butinhismind,acoolwindstartedupandblewoutoftheventilatorgrilleathome,softly,softly,chillinghisface. And,again,hesawhimselfinagreenparktalkingtoanoldman,averyoldman,andthewindfromtheparkwascold,too.
Montaghesitated, "Was—wasitalwayslikethis?Thefirehouse,ourwork?Imean,well,onceuponatime..."
"Onceuponatime!"Beattysaid."Whatkindoftalkisthat?"
Fool,thoughtMontagtohimself,you’llgiveitaway.Atthelastfire,abookoffairytales,he’dglancedatasingleline. "Imean,"hesaid,"intheolddays,beforehomeswerecompletelyfireproofed."Suddenlyitseemedamuchyoungervoicewasspeakingforhim. HeopenedhismouthanditwasClarisseMcClellansaying, "Didn’tfiremenpreventfiresratherthanstokethemupandgetthemgoing?"
"That’srich!"StonemanandBlackdrewforththeirrulebooks,whichalsocontainedbriefhistoriesoftheFiremenofAmerica,andlaidthemoutwhereMontag,thoughlongfamiliarwiththem,mightread:
