tonight and the Terror will be fun."
Mr. Montag shuddered, sick. He left the room. He walked through the house, thinking.
Leahy, the fire house, these dangerous books.
"I'll shoot him tonight," he said, aloud. "I'll kill Leahy. That'll be one censor out of the way. No." He laughed coldly. "I'd have to shoot most of the people in the world. How does one start a revolution? I'm alone. My wife, as the saying goes, does not understand me. What can a single lonely man do?"
MILDRED was chattering. The radio was thundering, turned on again.
And then Mr. Montag remembered; about a month ago, walking through the park alone, he had come upon a man in a black suit, unaware. The man had been reading something. Montag hadn't seen a book; he had only seen the man move hastily, face flushed. The man had jumped up as if to run, and Montag had said, simply, "Sit down."
"I didn't do anything."
"No one said you did." They had sat in the park all afternoon. Montag had drawn the man out. He was a retired Professor of English literature, who had lost his job forty years before when the last college of fine arts had been closed. His name was William Faber, and shyly, fearfully, he admitted he had been reading a little book of American poems, forbidden poems which he now produced from his coat pocket.
"Just to know I'm alive," said Mr. Faber. "Just to know where I am and what things are. To sense things. Most of my friends sense nothing. Most of them can't talk. They stutter and halt and hunt words. And what they talk is sales and profits and what they saw on television the hour before."
What a nice afternoon that had been. Professor Faber had read some of the poems to Montag, none of which Montag understood, but the sounds were good, and slowly the meaning crept in. When it was all over, Montag said, "I'm a fireman."
Faber had looked as if he might die on the spot.
"Don't be afraid. I won't turn you in," said Montag hastily. "I stopped being mean about it years ago. You know, the way you talk reminds me of a girl I knew once, name of Clarisse. She was killed a few months ago by a car. But she had me thinking, too. We met each other because we took long walks. No one walks any more. I haven't seen a pedestrian in ten years on our street. Are you ever stopped by police simply because you're a pedestrian?"
He and Faber had smiled, exchanged addresses orally, and parted. He had never seen Faber again. It wouldn't be safe to know a former English literature professor. But now...?
He dialed a call.
"Hello, Professor Faber?"
"Who is this?"
"This is Montag. You remember? The park? A month ago?"
"Yes, Mr. Montag. Can I help you?"
"Mr. Faber." He hesitated. "How many copies of the Bible are left in the world?"
"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about." The voice grew cold.
"I want to know if there are any copies at all."
"I can't discuss such things, Montag."
"This line is closed. There's no one listening."
"Is this some sort of trap? I can't talk to just anyone on the phone."
"Tell me, are there any copies?"
"None!" And Faber hung up.
None.
MONTAG fell back in his chair. None! None in all the world, none left, none anywhere, all, all of them destroyed, torn apart, burned. The Bible at last dead for all time to the world.
He got up shakily and walked across the room and bent down among the books. He took hold of one book and lifted it.
"The old and new testaments, Millie! One last copy and we have it here!"
"Fine," she said vaguely.
"Do you realize what it means, the importance of this copy here in our house? If anything should happen to this book, it would be lost forever."
"And you have to hand it back to Mr. Leahy tonight to be burned, don't you?" said Mildred. She was not being cruel. She was merely relieved that the one book, at least, was going out of her life.
"Yes."
He could
Mr. Montag shuddered, sick. He left the room. He walked through the house, thinking.
Leahy, the fire house, these dangerous books.
"I'll shoot him tonight," he said, aloud. "I'll kill Leahy. That'll be one censor out of the way. No." He laughed coldly. "I'd have to shoot most of the people in the world. How does one start a revolution? I'm alone. My wife, as the saying goes, does not understand me. What can a single lonely man do?"
MILDRED was chattering. The radio was thundering, turned on again.
And then Mr. Montag remembered; about a month ago, walking through the park alone, he had come upon a man in a black suit, unaware. The man had been reading something. Montag hadn't seen a book; he had only seen the man move hastily, face flushed. The man had jumped up as if to run, and Montag had said, simply, "Sit down."
"I didn't do anything."
"No one said you did." They had sat in the park all afternoon. Montag had drawn the man out. He was a retired Professor of English literature, who had lost his job forty years before when the last college of fine arts had been closed. His name was William Faber, and shyly, fearfully, he admitted he had been reading a little book of American poems, forbidden poems which he now produced from his coat pocket.
"Just to know I'm alive," said Mr. Faber. "Just to know where I am and what things are. To sense things. Most of my friends sense nothing. Most of them can't talk. They stutter and halt and hunt words. And what they talk is sales and profits and what they saw on television the hour before."
What a nice afternoon that had been. Professor Faber had read some of the poems to Montag, none of which Montag understood, but the sounds were good, and slowly the meaning crept in. When it was all over, Montag said, "I'm a fireman."
Faber had looked as if he might die on the spot.
"Don't be afraid. I won't turn you in," said Montag hastily. "I stopped being mean about it years ago. You know, the way you talk reminds me of a girl I knew once, name of Clarisse. She was killed a few months ago by a car. But she had me thinking, too. We met each other because we took long walks. No one walks any more. I haven't seen a pedestrian in ten years on our street. Are you ever stopped by police simply because you're a pedestrian?"
He and Faber had smiled, exchanged addresses orally, and parted. He had never seen Faber again. It wouldn't be safe to know a former English literature professor. But now...?
He dialed a call.
"Hello, Professor Faber?"
"Who is this?"
"This is Montag. You remember? The park? A month ago?"
"Yes, Mr. Montag. Can I help you?"
"Mr. Faber." He hesitated. "How many copies of the Bible are left in the world?"
"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about." The voice grew cold.
"I want to know if there are any copies at all."
"I can't discuss such things, Montag."
"This line is closed. There's no one listening."
"Is this some sort of trap? I can't talk to just anyone on the phone."
"Tell me, are there any copies?"
"None!" And Faber hung up.
None.
MONTAG fell back in his chair. None! None in all the world, none left, none anywhere, all, all of them destroyed, torn apart, burned. The Bible at last dead for all time to the world.
He got up shakily and walked across the room and bent down among the books. He took hold of one book and lifted it.
"The old and new testaments, Millie! One last copy and we have it here!"
"Fine," she said vaguely.
"Do you realize what it means, the importance of this copy here in our house? If anything should happen to this book, it would be lost forever."
"And you have to hand it back to Mr. Leahy tonight to be burned, don't you?" said Mildred. She was not being cruel. She was merely relieved that the one book, at least, was going out of her life.
"Yes."
He could
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