451 по фаренгейту

           Inthedim,waveringlight,apagehungopenanditwaslikeasnowyfeather,thewordsdelicatelypaintedthereon. Inalltherushandfervour,Montaghadonlyaninstanttoreadaline,butitblazedinhismindforthenextminuteasifstampedtherewithfierysteel. "Timehasfallenasleepintheafternoonsunshine."Hedroppedthebook.Immediately,anotherfellintohisarms. 

           "Montag,uphere!" 

           Montag’shandclosedlikeamouth,crushedthebookwithwilddevotion,withaninsanityofmindlessnesstohischest. Themenabovewerehurlingshovelfulsofmagazinesintothedustyair. Theyfelllikeslaughteredbirdsandthewomanstoodbelow,likeasmallgirl,amongthebodies. 

           Montaghaddonenothing. Hishandhaddoneitall,hishand,withabrainofitsown,withaconscienceandacuriosityineachtremblingfinger,hadturnedthief. Now,itplungedthebookbackunderhisarm,pressedittighttosweatingarmpit,rushedoutempty,withamagician’sflourish!Lookhere!Innocent!Look! 

           Hegazed,shaken,atthatwhitehand.Hehelditwayout,asifhewerefar-sighted.Hehelditclose,asifhewereblind. 

           "Montag!" 

           Hejerkedabout. 

           "Don’tstandthere,idiot!" 

           Thebookslaylikegreatmoundsoffisheslefttodry. Themendancedandslippedandfelloverthem. Titlesglitteredtheirgoldeneyes,falling,gone.