Fahrenheit 451

Előszó

In The Beginning
Books bombarded Montag's shoulders, his arms, his upturned face* A book landed, almost obediently, like a white pigeon, in his hands, wings fluttering. In the dim wavering light a page hung open and it was like a snowy feather, the words delicately painted thereon. In all the rush and fervor, Montag had only an instant to read a line, but it blazed as if stamped there with fiery steel.
And then Montag's hand closed like a mouth, crushed the book with wiki devotion, with an insanity of mindlessness to his chest Montag had done nothing. His hand had done it all his hand, with a brain of its own, with a conscience and a curiosity in each trembling finger, had turned thief.
Montag knew it was madness, suicide—but it was also a beginning!
I
iini
IT WAS A PLEASURE TO BURN.
It was a special pleasure to see things eaten, to see things blackened and changed. With the brass nozzle in his fists, with this great python spitting its venomous kerosene upon the world, the blood pounded in his head, and his hands were the hands of some amazing conductor playing all the symphonies of blazing and burning to bring down the tatters and charcoal ruins of history. With his symbolic helmet numbered 451 on his stolid head, and his eyes all orange name with the thought of what came next, he flicked the igniter and the house jumped up in a gorging fire that burned the evening sky red and yellow and black. He strode in a swarm of fireflies. He wanted above all, like the old joke, to shove a marsh-mallow on a stick in the furnace, while the flapping pigeon-vráiged books died on the porch and lawn of the house. While the books went up in sparkling Vissza