window.
"Go on," said Mr. Montag.
"Someone might be watching. That might've been Mr. Leahy at our door a while back."
"Whoever it was went away. Read that last section again. I want to understand that."
She read from the works of Jefferson and Lincoln.
When it was five o'clock her hands dropped open. "I'm tired. Can I stop now?" Her voice was hoarse.
"How thoughtless of me." He took a book from her. "But isn't it beautiful, Millie? The words, and the thoughts, aren't they exciting?"
"I don't understand any of it."
"But surely..."
"Just words."
"But you remember some of it."
"Nothing."
"You'll learn. It's difficult at first."
"I don't like books," she said. "I don't understand books. They're over my head. They're for Professors and radicals and I don't want to read any more. Please, promise you won't make me."
"Mildred!"
"I'm afraid," she said, putting her face into her shaking hands. "I'm so terribly frightened by these ideas, by Mr. Leahy, and having these books in the house. They'll burn our books and kill us. Now, I'm sick."
"I'm sorry," he said at last, sighing. "I've put you on trial, haven't I? I'm way out front, trying to drag you, when I should be walking beside you, barely touching. I expect too much. It'll take months to put you in the frame of mind where you can receive the ideas in these books. It's not fair of me. All right, you won't have to read aloud again."
"Thanks."
"But you must listen. I'll explain."
"I'll never learn. I just know I won't."
"You must if you want to be free."
"I'm free already. I couldn't be freer."
"You can't be free if you're not aware."
"Why do you want to ruin us" with all this?" she asked.
"Listen," he said.
SHE listened. Jet-bombers were crossing the sky over their house.
Those quick gasps in the heavens, as if a running giant had drawn his breath. Those sharp, almost quiet whistles, here and gone in so much less than an instant that one almost believed one had heard nothing. And seeing nothing in the sky, if you did look, was worse than seeing something.
There was a feeling as if a great invisible fan was whirring blade after hostile blade across the stars, with giant murmurs and no motion, perhaps only a faint trembling of starlight. All night, every night of their lives, they had heard those jet sounds and seen nothing, until, like the tick of a clock or a time-bomb, it had come to be unnoticed, for it was the sound of today and the sound of today dying, the Cheyne-Stokes respiration of civilization.
"I want to know why and how we are where we are," said Montag. "How did those bombers get in the sky every instant? Why have there been three semi-atomic wars since 1960? Where did we take the wrong turn? What can we do about it? Only the books know this. Maybe the books can't solve my problem, but they can bring me out in the light. And they might stop us from going on with the same insane mistakes."
"You can't stop wars. There've always been wars."
"No, I can't. War's so much a part of us now that in the last three days, though we're on the very rim of war, people hardly mention it. Ignoring it, at least, isn't the answer. But now, about us. We must have a schedule of reading. An hour in the morning. An hour or so in the afternoon. Two hours in the evening — "
"You're not going to forbid me my radio, are you?" Her voice rose.
"Well, to start..."
She was up in a fury, raging at him. "I'll sit and listen if you want me to for a while every day," she cried. "But I've got to have my radio programs, too, and every night on the t-v — you can't take that away from me!"
"But don't you see? That's the very thing I'd like to counteract—"
The telephone rang. They both started. Mildred snatched it up and was almost immediately laughing. "Hello, Ann. Yes, oh, yes! Tonight, you come here. Yes, the White Clown's on
"Go on," said Mr. Montag.
"Someone might be watching. That might've been Mr. Leahy at our door a while back."
"Whoever it was went away. Read that last section again. I want to understand that."
She read from the works of Jefferson and Lincoln.
When it was five o'clock her hands dropped open. "I'm tired. Can I stop now?" Her voice was hoarse.
"How thoughtless of me." He took a book from her. "But isn't it beautiful, Millie? The words, and the thoughts, aren't they exciting?"
"I don't understand any of it."
"But surely..."
"Just words."
"But you remember some of it."
"Nothing."
"You'll learn. It's difficult at first."
"I don't like books," she said. "I don't understand books. They're over my head. They're for Professors and radicals and I don't want to read any more. Please, promise you won't make me."
"Mildred!"
"I'm afraid," she said, putting her face into her shaking hands. "I'm so terribly frightened by these ideas, by Mr. Leahy, and having these books in the house. They'll burn our books and kill us. Now, I'm sick."
"I'm sorry," he said at last, sighing. "I've put you on trial, haven't I? I'm way out front, trying to drag you, when I should be walking beside you, barely touching. I expect too much. It'll take months to put you in the frame of mind where you can receive the ideas in these books. It's not fair of me. All right, you won't have to read aloud again."
"Thanks."
"But you must listen. I'll explain."
"I'll never learn. I just know I won't."
"You must if you want to be free."
"I'm free already. I couldn't be freer."
"You can't be free if you're not aware."
"Why do you want to ruin us" with all this?" she asked.
"Listen," he said.
SHE listened. Jet-bombers were crossing the sky over their house.
Those quick gasps in the heavens, as if a running giant had drawn his breath. Those sharp, almost quiet whistles, here and gone in so much less than an instant that one almost believed one had heard nothing. And seeing nothing in the sky, if you did look, was worse than seeing something.
There was a feeling as if a great invisible fan was whirring blade after hostile blade across the stars, with giant murmurs and no motion, perhaps only a faint trembling of starlight. All night, every night of their lives, they had heard those jet sounds and seen nothing, until, like the tick of a clock or a time-bomb, it had come to be unnoticed, for it was the sound of today and the sound of today dying, the Cheyne-Stokes respiration of civilization.
"I want to know why and how we are where we are," said Montag. "How did those bombers get in the sky every instant? Why have there been three semi-atomic wars since 1960? Where did we take the wrong turn? What can we do about it? Only the books know this. Maybe the books can't solve my problem, but they can bring me out in the light. And they might stop us from going on with the same insane mistakes."
"You can't stop wars. There've always been wars."
"No, I can't. War's so much a part of us now that in the last three days, though we're on the very rim of war, people hardly mention it. Ignoring it, at least, isn't the answer. But now, about us. We must have a schedule of reading. An hour in the morning. An hour or so in the afternoon. Two hours in the evening — "
"You're not going to forbid me my radio, are you?" Her voice rose.
"Well, to start..."
She was up in a fury, raging at him. "I'll sit and listen if you want me to for a while every day," she cried. "But I've got to have my radio programs, too, and every night on the t-v — you can't take that away from me!"
"But don't you see? That's the very thing I'd like to counteract—"
The telephone rang. They both started. Mildred snatched it up and was almost immediately laughing. "Hello, Ann. Yes, oh, yes! Tonight, you come here. Yes, the White Clown's on
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