Fahrenheit 451 / 451 градус по Фаренгейту. Рэй Брэдбери

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      “Oh. Of course.”

      “It’s fine work. Monday bum Millay, Wednesday Whitman, Friday Faulkner, burn ‘em to ashes, then bum the ashes. That’s our official slogan.”

      They walked still further and the girl said, “Is it true that long ago firemen put fires out instead of going to start them?”

      “No. Houses have always been fireproof, take my word for it.”

      “Strange. I heard once that a long time ago houses used to burn by accident and they needed firemen to stop the flames.”

      He laughed.

      She glanced quickly over.

      “Why are you laughing?”

      “I don’t know.” He started to laugh again and stopped “Why?”

      “You laugh when I haven’t been funny and you answer right off. You never stop to think what I’ve asked you.”

      He stopped walking, “You are an odd one,” he said, looking at her. “Haven’t you any respect?”

      “I don’t mean to be insulting. It’s just, I love to watch people too much, I guess.”

      “Well, doesn’t this mean anything to you?” He tapped the numerals 451 stitched on his char-coloured sleeve.

      “Yes,” she whispered. She increased her pace. “Have you ever watched the jet cars racing on the boulevards down that way?’’

      “You’re changing the subject!”

      “I sometimes think drivers don’t know what grass is, or flowers, because they never see them slowly,” she said. “If you showed a driver a green blur, Oh yes! he’d say, that’s grass! A pink blur? That’s a rose-garden! White blurs are houses. Brown blurs are cows. My uncle drove slowly on a highway once. He drove forty miles an hour and they jailed him for two days. Isn’t that funny, and sad, too?”

      “You think too many things,” said Montag, uneasily.

      “I rarely watch the ‘parlour walls’ or go to races or Fun Parks. So I’ve lots of time for crazy thoughts, I guess. Have you seen the two-hundred-foot-long billboards in the country beyond town? Did you know that once billboards were only twenty feet long? But cars started rushing by so quickly they had to stretch the advertising out so it would last.”

      “I didn’t know that!” Montag laughed abruptly.

      “Bet I know something else you don’t. There’s dew on the grass in the morning.”

      He suddenly couldn’t remember if he had known this or not, and it made him quite irritable.

      “And if you look” – she nodded at the sky – “there’s a man in the moon.”

      He hadn’t looked for a long time.

      They walked the rest of the way in silence, hers thoughtful, his a kind of clenching and uncomfortable silence in which he shot her accusing glances. When they reached her house all its lights were blazing.

      “What’s going on?” Montag had rarely seen that many house lights.

      “Oh, just my mother and father and uncle sitting around, talking. It’s like being a pedestrian, only rarer. My uncle was arrested another time-did I tell you? – for being a pedestrian. Oh, we’re most peculiar.”

      “But what do you talk about?”

      She laughed at this. “Good night!” She started up her walk. Then she seemed to remember something and came back to look at him with wonder and curiosity.

      “Are you happy?” she said.

      “Am I what?” he cried.

      But she was gone-running in the moonlight. Her front door shut gently.

      “Happy! Of all the nonsense.”

      He stopped laughing.

      He put his hand into the glove-hole of his front door and let it know his touch. The front door slid open.

      Of course I’m happy. What does she think? I’m not? he asked the quiet rooms. He stood looking up at the ventilator grille in the hall and suddenly remembered that something lay hidden behind the grille, something that seemed to peer down at him now. He moved his eyes quickly away.

      What a strange meeting on a strange night. He remembered nothing like it save one afternoon a year ago when he had met an old man in the park and they had talked…

      Montag shook his head. He looked at a blank wall. The girl’s face was there, really quite beautiful in memory: astonishing, in fact. She had a very thin face like the dial of a small clock seen faintly in a dark room in the middle of a night when you waken to see the time and see the clock telling you the hour and the minute and the second, with a white silence and a glowing, all certainty and knowing what it has to tell of the night passing swiftly on toward further darknesses but moving also toward a new sun.

      “What?” asked Montag of that other self, the subconscious idiot that ran babbling at times, quite independent of will, habit, and conscience.

      He glanced back at the wall. How like a mirror, too, her face. Impossible; for how many people did you know that refracted your own light to you? People were more often – he searched for a simile, found one in his work-torches, blazing away until they whiffed out. How rarely did other people’s faces take of you and throw back to you your own expression, your own innermost trembling thought?

      What incredible power of identification the girl had; she was like the eager watcher of a marionette show, anticipating each flicker of an eyelid, each gesture of his hand, each flick of a finger, the moment before it began. How long had they walked together? Three minutes? Five? Yet how large that time seemed now. How immense a figure she was on the stage before him; what a shadow she threw on the wall with her slender body! He felt that if his eye itched, she might blink. And if the muscles of his jaws stretched imperceptibly, she would yawn long before he would.

      Why, he thought, now that I think of it, she almost seemed to be waiting for me there, in the street, so damned late at night…

      He opened the bedroom door.

      It was like coming into the cold marbled room of a mausoleum after the moon had set. Complete darkness, not a hint of the silver world outside, the windows tightly shut, the chamber a tomb-world where no sound from the great city could penetrate. The room was not empty.

      He listened.

      The little mosquito-delicate dancing hum in the air, the electrical murmur of a hidden wasp snug in its special pink warm nest. The music was almost loud enough so he could follow the tune.

      He felt his smile slide away, melt, fold over, and down on itself like a tallow skin, like the stuff of a fantastic candle burning too long and now collapsing and now blown out. Darkness. He was not happy. He was not happy. He said the words to himself. He recognized this as the true state of affairs. He wore his happiness like a mask and the girl had run off across the lawn with the mask and there was no way of going to knock on her door and ask for it back.

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