see Leahy turning the book over with slow appreciation. "Sit down, Montag. I want you to watch this. Delicately, like a head of lettuce, see?" Ripping one page after another from the binding. Lighting the first page with a match.
And when it had curled down into black wings, lighting the second page from the first and the third from the second, and so on, chain-smoking the entire volume chapter by printed chapter, all of the words and the wisdom. When it was finished, with Montag seated there sweating, the floor would resemble a swarm of black moths that had fluttered and died in one small storm. And Leahy smiling, washing his hands.
"My God, Millie, we've got to do something! We've got to copy this. There must be a duplicate made. This can't be lost!"
"You haven't time."
"No, not by hand. But if we could photograph it."
"No one would do it for you."
He stopped. She was right. There was no one to trust, except, perhaps, Professor Faber. Montag started for the door.
"You'll be here for the t-v party, won't you?" Mildred called after him. "It wouldn't be fun without you."
"You'd never miss me." But she was looking at the late afternoon t-v show and didn't hear. He went out and slammed the door, the book in his hand.
ONCE, as a child, he had sat upon the yellow dunes by the sea in the middle of the blue and hot summer day, trying to fill a sieve with sand. The faster he poured, the faster it sifted through with a hot whispering. He tried all day because some cruel cousin had said, "Fill this sieve and you'll get a dime!"
Seated there in the midst of July, he had cried. His hands were tired, the sand was boiling, the sieve was empty.
And now, as the jet-underground car roared him through the lower cellars of town, rocking him, jolting him, he remembered that frustrating sieve and he held this precious copy of the old and new testaments fiercely in his hands, trying to pour the words into his mind. But the words fell through, and he thought, in a few hours I must hand this book to Leahy, but I must remember each word, no phrase must escape me, each line can be memorized. I must remember, I must.
"But I do not remember." He shut the book and pressed it with his fists and tried to force his mind.
"Try Denham's Dentifrice tonight!" screamed the radio in the bright, shuddering wall of the jet-train. Trumpets blared.
"Shut up," thought Mr. Montag in panic. " Behold, the lilies of the field —"
"Denham's Dentifrice!"
" They toil not — "
"Denham's Dentifrice!"
" Behold, the lilies of the field , shut up, let me remember!"
"Denham's Dentifrice!"
He tore the book open furiously and flicked the pages about as if blind, tearing at the lines with raw eyes, staring until his eyelashes were wet and quivering.
"Denham's, Denham's, Denham's! D-E-N— "
" They toil not, neither do they ..."
A whisper, a faint sly whisper of yellow sand through empty, empty sieve.
"Denham's does it!"
" Behold, the lilies — "
"No dandier dental detergent!"
"Shut up!" It was a shriek so loud, so vicious that the loudspeaker seemed stunned. Mr. Montag found himself on his feet, the shocked inhabitants of the loud car looking at him, recoiling from a man with an insane, gorged face, a gibbering wet mouth, a flapping book in his fist.
These rabbit people who hadn't asked for music and commercials on their public trains but who had got it by the sewerful, the air drenched and sprayed and pummeled and kicked by voices and music every instant. And here was an idiot man, himself, suddenly scrabbling at the wall, beating at the loudspeaker, at the enemy of peace, at the killer of philosophy and privacy!
"Madman!"
"Call the conductor!"
"Denham's, Denham's Double Dentifrice!"
"Fourteenth Street!"
Only that saved him. The car stopped. Montag, thrown into the aisle by the grinding halt, rolled over, book in hand,
And when it had curled down into black wings, lighting the second page from the first and the third from the second, and so on, chain-smoking the entire volume chapter by printed chapter, all of the words and the wisdom. When it was finished, with Montag seated there sweating, the floor would resemble a swarm of black moths that had fluttered and died in one small storm. And Leahy smiling, washing his hands.
"My God, Millie, we've got to do something! We've got to copy this. There must be a duplicate made. This can't be lost!"
"You haven't time."
"No, not by hand. But if we could photograph it."
"No one would do it for you."
He stopped. She was right. There was no one to trust, except, perhaps, Professor Faber. Montag started for the door.
"You'll be here for the t-v party, won't you?" Mildred called after him. "It wouldn't be fun without you."
"You'd never miss me." But she was looking at the late afternoon t-v show and didn't hear. He went out and slammed the door, the book in his hand.
ONCE, as a child, he had sat upon the yellow dunes by the sea in the middle of the blue and hot summer day, trying to fill a sieve with sand. The faster he poured, the faster it sifted through with a hot whispering. He tried all day because some cruel cousin had said, "Fill this sieve and you'll get a dime!"
Seated there in the midst of July, he had cried. His hands were tired, the sand was boiling, the sieve was empty.
And now, as the jet-underground car roared him through the lower cellars of town, rocking him, jolting him, he remembered that frustrating sieve and he held this precious copy of the old and new testaments fiercely in his hands, trying to pour the words into his mind. But the words fell through, and he thought, in a few hours I must hand this book to Leahy, but I must remember each word, no phrase must escape me, each line can be memorized. I must remember, I must.
"But I do not remember." He shut the book and pressed it with his fists and tried to force his mind.
"Try Denham's Dentifrice tonight!" screamed the radio in the bright, shuddering wall of the jet-train. Trumpets blared.
"Shut up," thought Mr. Montag in panic. " Behold, the lilies of the field —"
"Denham's Dentifrice!"
" They toil not — "
"Denham's Dentifrice!"
" Behold, the lilies of the field , shut up, let me remember!"
"Denham's Dentifrice!"
He tore the book open furiously and flicked the pages about as if blind, tearing at the lines with raw eyes, staring until his eyelashes were wet and quivering.
"Denham's, Denham's, Denham's! D-E-N— "
" They toil not, neither do they ..."
A whisper, a faint sly whisper of yellow sand through empty, empty sieve.
"Denham's does it!"
" Behold, the lilies — "
"No dandier dental detergent!"
"Shut up!" It was a shriek so loud, so vicious that the loudspeaker seemed stunned. Mr. Montag found himself on his feet, the shocked inhabitants of the loud car looking at him, recoiling from a man with an insane, gorged face, a gibbering wet mouth, a flapping book in his fist.
These rabbit people who hadn't asked for music and commercials on their public trains but who had got it by the sewerful, the air drenched and sprayed and pummeled and kicked by voices and music every instant. And here was an idiot man, himself, suddenly scrabbling at the wall, beating at the loudspeaker, at the enemy of peace, at the killer of philosophy and privacy!
"Madman!"
"Call the conductor!"
"Denham's, Denham's Double Dentifrice!"
"Fourteenth Street!"
Only that saved him. The car stopped. Montag, thrown into the aisle by the grinding halt, rolled over, book in hand,
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