38. When BOOKS are outlawed -- excerpts from the novel "Fahrenheit 451" by Ray Bradbury

Excerpt from
the novel
"Fahrenheit 451",
by Ray Bradbury,
Ballantine Books,
New York,
1953,
p. 101 - 110.
 
[Background:
"Fahrenheit 451 --
is the temperature
at which book paper
catches fire,
and burns ..."
 
Our Hero,
Guy Montag,
has served
as a "Fireman"
in a society
of the near future,
where all books
and reading materials
have been
outlawed --
so that the "Firemen"
actually
BURN
the books
they find hidden
by the "criminals"
who still like to read.

His wife Mildred
("Millie")
likes to watch the television
on wall-size screens
in her parlor.

Montag

is in communication also
with his new friend Faber
by means of
a beetle-like
electronic device in his ear.]
  
He was eating
a light supper
at
nine in the evening
when the front door
cried out
in the hall
and Mildred
ran from the parlor
like
a native
fleeing an eruption
of Vesuvius.
 
Mrs. Phelps
and
Mrs. Bowles
came through
the front door
and
vanished
into
the volcano's mouth
with
martinis
in their hands.
 
Montag
stopped
eating.
 
They
were like
a
monstrous
crystal chandelier
tinkling
in
a thousand chimes;
he saw
their
Cheshire Cat smiles
burning
through the walls
of the house,
and
now
they were
screaming
at each other
above the din.
 
Montag
found himself
at the parlor door
with his food
still in his mouth.
 
"Doesn't
everyone
look
nice!"
 
"Nice."
 
"You look
fine,
Millie!"
 
"Fine."
 
"Everyone
looks
swell."
 
"Swell."
 
Montag
stood watching them.
 
"Patience,"
whispered Faber.
 
"I shouldn't be here,"
whispered Montag,
almost to himself.
 
"I should be
on my way
back to you
with the money!"
 
"Tomorrow's
time enough.
Careful!"
 
"Isn't
this show
wonderful?"
cried Mildred.
 
"Wonderful!"
 
On one wall
a woman smiled
and
drank orange juice
simultaneously.
 
How does she
do
both
at once?
thought Montag,
insanely.
 
In the other walls
an x-ray
of the same woman
revealed
the contracting journey
of the refreshing beverage
on its way
to her delighted stomach!
 
Abruptly
the room
took off
on a rocket flight
into the clouds,
it plunged
into a lime-green sea
where blue fish
ate red and yellow fish.
 
A minute later,
Three White
Cartoon Clowns
chopped off
each other's limbs
to the accompaniment
of
immense
incoming tides
of laughter.
 
Two minutes more
and the room whipped out of town
to the jet cars
wildly circling an arena,
bashing
and
backing up
and bashing
each other again.
 
Montag saw
a number of bodies
fly in the air.
 
"Millie,
did you see
that!"
 
"I saw it,
I saw it!"
 
Montag
reached inside
the parlor wall
and
pulled
the main switch.
 
The images
drained away,
as if the water
had been let
from
a
gigantic crystal bowl
of hysterical fish.
 
The three women
turned slowly
and looked
with
unconcealed irritation
and
then
dislike
at Montag.
 
"When do you suppose
the war
will start?"
he said.

"I notice
your husbands
aren't here tonight?"
 
"Oh
they come and go,
come and go,"
said Mrs. Phelps.

"In again

out again
Finnegan,
the Army called Pete
yesterday.

He'll be back

next week.

The Army said so.

Quick war.

Forty-eight hours,

they said,
and everyone home.

That's what

the Army said.

Quick war.

Pete

was called yesterday
and they said
he'd be back
next week.

Quick..."

 
The three women
fidgeted
and
looked nervously
at
the empty
mud-colored
walls.
 
"I'm not worried,"
said Mrs. Phelps.
"I'll let
Pete
do all the worrying."

She giggled.

"I'll let
old Pete
do all the worrying.

Not me.

I'm not worried."

 
"Yes,"
said Millie.

"Let

old Pete
do the worrying."
 
"It's
always
someone else's
husband
dies,
they say."
 
"I've heard that, too.
I've never known
any dead man
killed in a war.

Killed

jumping off buildings,
yes,
like Gloria's husband
last week,
but from wars?

No."

 
"Not from wars,"
said Mrs. Phelps.

"Anyway,

Pete and I

always said,
no tears,
nothing like that.

It's

our third marriage each
and
we're independent.

Be independent,

we always said.

He said,

if I get killed off,
you just go right ahead
and
don't cry,
but
get married again,
and
don't think of me."
 
"That reminds me,"
said Mildred.

"Did you see that

Clara Dove
five-minute romance
last night
in your wall?

Well,

it was all about
this woman who -- "
 
Montag said nothing
but stood
looking at the women's faces
as he
had once looked
at
the faces of saints
in
a strange church
he had entered
when he was a child.
 
The faces
of those enameled creatures
meant nothing to him,
though he talked to them
and
stood
in that church
for
a long time,
trying
to be
of that religion,
trying
to know
what that religion was,
trying
to get enough
of the raw incense
and special dust of the place
into his lungs
and thus
into his blood
to feel touched
and
concerned
by the meaning
of the colorful men and women
with the porcelain eyes
and
the blood-ruby lips.

But there was nothing,
nothing;
it was
a stroll through another store,
and
his currency
strange
and unusable there
and
his passion cold,
even when
he touched
the wood and plaster
and clay.

So it was now,

in his own parlor,
with these women
twisting in their chairs
under his gaze,
lighting cigarettes,
blowing smoke,
touching their sun-fired hair
and
examining
their blazing fingernails
as if they had caught fire
from his look.
 
Their faces
grew haunted
with silence.
 
They leaned forward
at the sound
of
Montag's swallowing
his
final bite of food.
 
They listened
to
his feverish
breathing.
 
The three
empty walls
of the room
were like
the pale brows
of sleeping giants now,
empty of dreams.
 
Montag felt
that if you touched
these three staring brows
you would feel a fine salt sweat
on your fingertips.
 
The perspiration
gathered with the silence
and
the subaudible trembling
around and about
and in
the women
who were burning
with tension.
 
Any moment
they might hiss
a
long sputtering hiss
and
explode.
 
Montag
moved his lips.
 
"Let's talk."
 
The women
jerked
and stared.
 
"How're
your children,
Mrs. Phelps?"
he asked.
"You know I haven't any!

No one

in his right mind,
the good Lord knows,
would have children!"
said Mrs. Phelps,
not quite sure why
she was angry
with this man.
 
"I wouldn't say that,"
said Mrs. Bowles.

"I've had two children

by Caesarian section.

No use
going through
all that agony
for a baby.
 
The world
must reproduce,
you know,
the race
must go on.
 
Besides,
they sometimes
look just like you,
and that's nice.
 
Two Caesarians
turned the trick,
yes, sir.

Oh,

my doctor said,
Caesarians
aren't necessary;
you've
got the hips for it,
everything's
normal,
but
I insisted."
 
"Caesarians or not,
children are ruinous;
you're
out of your mind,"
said Mrs. Phelps.
 
"I plunk the children
in school
nine days out of ten.

I put up with them
when they come home
three days a month;
it's not bad at all.
 
You heave them
into the 'parlor'
and
turn the switch.
 
It's like washing clothes:
stuff laundry in
and
slam the lid."

Mrs. Bowles tittered.

 
"They'd
just as soon
kick
as
kiss
me.
 
Thank God,
I can kick back!"
 
The women
showed their tongues,
laughing.
 
Mildred
sat a moment
and then,
seeing that Montag
was still in the doorway,
clapped her hands.
 
"Let's
talk politics,
to
please Guy!"
 
"Sounds fine,"
said Mrs. Bowles.
"I  voted last election,
same as everyone,
and
I laid it on the line
for President Noble.
 
I think
he's one
of
the
nicest-looking men
ever became
president."
 
"Oh,
but the man
they ran
against him!"
 
"He
wasn't much,
was he?

Kind of small

and homely
and
he didn't shave
too close
or
comb his hair
very well."
 
"What possessed
the 'Outs'
to run him?

You just

don't go
running a little short man
like that
against
a tall man.

Besides --

he mumbled.

Half the time
I couldn't hear
a word he said.

And

the words
I did hear
I didn't
understand!"
 
"Fat, too,
and
didn't dress
to hide it.

No wonder

the landslide
 was
for Winston Noble.

Even their names

helped.

Compare

Winston Noble
to
Hubert Hoag
for ten seconds
and
you can
almost figure
the results."
 
"Damn it!"
cried Montag.

"What
do you
know
about
Hoag
and
Noble!"

"Why,

they were
right in that parlor wall,
not six months ago.
One
was always
picking his nose;
it drove me wild."
 
"Well,
Mr. Montag,"
said Mrs. Phelps,
"do you
want us
to vote
for a man
like that?"
 
Mildred
beamed.

"You

just
run away
from the door,

Guy,
and
don't make us
nervous."
 
But
Montag
was gone and back
in a moment
with
a book
in his hand.
 
"Guy!"
 
"Damn it all,
damn it all,
damn it!"
 
"What've
you got
there;
isn't that
a book?
 
I thought
that all
special training
these days
was done
by film."

Mrs. Phelps blinked.

"You
reading up
on
fireman theory?"
 
"Theory,
hell,"
said Montag.
"It's poetry."
 
"Montag."

A whisper.

"Leave me

alone!"

Montag felt himself

turning
in
a great circling roar
and buzz
and hum.
 
"Montag,
hold on,
don't ..."
 
"Did you hear them,
did you hear
these monsters
talking
about monsters?

Oh God,

the way they jabber
about people
and their own children
and themselves
and
the way they talk
about their husbands
and
the way they talk
about war,
dammit,
I stand here
and
I can't believe it!"
 
"I didn't say
a single word
about any
war,
I'll have you know,"
said Mrs. Phelps.
 
"As for
poetry,
I hate it,"
said Mrs. Bowles.
 
"Have
you
ever
heard
any?"
 
"Montag,"
Faber's voice
scraped away
 at him.

"You'll
ruin everything.

Shut up,

you fool!"
 
All three women
were
on their feet.
 
"Sit down!"
 
They sat.
 
"I'm going home,"
quavered
Mrs. Bowles.
 
"Montag,
Montag,
please,
in the name of God,
what're you
up to?"
pleaded Faber.
 
"Why don't you
just
read us
one of those poems
from your little book."
Mrs. Phelps nodded.

"I think
that'd be
very interesting."
 
"That's not right,"
wailed Mrs. Bowles.

"We can't do that!"
 
"Well,
look at Mr. Montag,
he wants to,

I know he does.

And

if we listen nice,
Mr. Montag
will be happy
and
then maybe
we can go on
and do something else."

She glanced nervously

at the long emptiness
of the walls
enclosing them.
 
"Montag,
go through with this
and
I'll cut off,
I'll leave."

The beetle

jabbed his ear.

"What good

is this,
what'll you prove!"
 
"Scare hell
out of them,
that's what,
scare
the living daylights
out!"
 
Mildred
looked
at the empty air.

"Now, Guy,

just
who
are you talking to?"
 
A silver needle
pierced his brain.

"Montag,

listen,
only one way out,
play it as a joke,
cover up,
pretend
you aren't mad
at all.

Then --
walk to your wall incinerator,
and
throw the book in!"
 
Mildred
had already anticipated this
in a quavery voice.

"Ladies,

once a year,
every fireman's
allowed
to
bring one book home,
from the old days,
to show his family
how silly it all was,
how nervous
that sort of thing
can make you,
how crazy.

Guy's

surprise tonight
is to read you
one sample
to show
how mixed-up
things were,
so none of us
will ever
have to bother
our little old heads
about that junk again,
isn't that right,
darling?"
 
He crushed the book
in his fists.
 
"Say
'yes.' "
 
His mouth
moved
like Faber's:

"Yes."

 
Mildred
snatched the book
with a laugh.

"Here!

Read this one.

No,

I take it back.

Here's that real funny one

you read
out loud today.

Ladies,

you
won't understand
a word.

It goes

umpty-tumpty-ump.

Go ahead,

Guy,
that page, dear."
 
He looked
at
the opened page.
 
A fly
stirred its wings
softly
in his ear.

"Read."

 
"What's the title,
dear?"
 
"Dover Beach."

His mouth
was numb.
 
"Now read
in
a nice clear voice
and
go slow."
 
The room
was blazing hot,
he was all fire,
he was all coldness;
they sat
n the middle
of an empty desert
with three chairs
and him
standing,
swaying,
and him waiting
for Mrs. Phelps
to stop
straightening her dress hem
and
Mrs. Bowles
to
take her fingers
way from her hair.
 
Then
he began to read
in
a low,
stumbling voice
that grew firmer
as he progressed
from line to line,
and
his voice
went out across the desert,
into the whiteness,
and
around
the three sitting women
there
in
the great hot emptiness.
 
" 'The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.' "
 
The chairs
creaked
under
the three women.
 
Montag
finished it out:

" "Ah, love, let us be true

To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.' "
 
Mrs. Phelps
was crying.
 
The others
in
the middle of the desert
watched her crying
grow very loud
as her face
squeezed itself
out of shape.
 
They sat,
not touching her,
bewildered
with
her display.
 
She sobbed
uncontrollably.
 
Montag himself
was stunned
and shaken.
 
"Sh, sh,"
said Mildred.
"You're all right,
Clara,
now,
Clara,
snap out of it!
Clara,
what's wrong?"
 
"I -- I,"
sobbed Mrs. Phelps,
"don't know,
don't know,
I just don't know,
oh, oh ..."
 
Mrs. Bowles
stood up
and
glared
at Montag.

"You see?

I knew it,

that's
what I
wanted to prove!

I knew

it would happen!

I've always said,

poetry and tears,
poetry and suicide
and crying
and awful feelings,
poetry and sickness;
all that mush!

Now

I've had it
proved to me.

You're nasty,

Mr. Montag,
you're nasty!"
 
Faber said,

"Now ..."

 
Montag felt himself
turn
and walk to the wall slot
and
drop the book in
through the brass notch
to
the waiting flames.
 
"Silly words,
silly words,
silly
awful
hurting
words,"
said Mrs. Bowles.

"Why do people

want
to hurt people?

Not enough
hurt
in the world,
you
got to
tease people
with
stuff like that!"
 
"Clara,
now, Clara,"
begged Mildred,
pulling her arm.

"Come on,

let's be cheery,

you

turn the 'family' on
now.

Go ahead.

Let's laugh

and
be happy now,
stop crying,
we'll have a party!"
 
"No,"
said Mrs. Bowles.
"I'm
trotting
right straight
home.

You want

to visit my house
and
my 'family',
well and good.

But

I won't come in
this fireman's
crazy house
again
in my lifetime!"
 
"Go home,"
Montag
fixed his eyes
upon her,
quietly.

"Go home

and
think
of
your first husband
divorced
and
your second husband
killed in a jet
and
your third husband
blowing his brains out,
go home
and think
of
the dozen abortions
you've had,
go home
and
think of that
and
your damn
Caesarian sections, too,
and
your children
who hate your guts!

Go home
and
think
how it all happened
and
what did
you
ever do
to stop it?

Go home,

go home!"
he yelled.
"Before I
knock you down
and
kick you
out the door!"

Doors slammed
and
the house was empty.
 
Montag
stood alone
in
the winter weather,
with
the parlor walls
the color
of dirty snow.
 
++++