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Prologue
It was a pleasure to burn.
It was a 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 of some amazing conductor playing all the symphonies of blazing and burning to bring down the tatters and charcoal ruins of history. With his symbolichelmet numbered 451 on his stolid head, and his eyes all orange flame with the thought of what came next, he flickered the igniter and the house jumped 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 marshmallow on a stick in the furnace, while the flapping pigeon-winged books died on the porch and lawn of the house. While the books went up in sparkling whirls and blew away on a wind turned dark with burning.
Montag grinned the fierce grin of all men singed and driven back by flame.
one
Moment of Reminiscence
It was a moment of witness, for now it was no longer a pleasure to burn; it was a burden. No longer was it a special pleasure to see things devoured by the flames of Hell, to see things demolished within the crisp ambers of ashes; it is a burden. The bible states that you reap what you sow, and Montag knew that. He knew it since the very beginning, but his mind was clouded by judgement of the Earth and Man. He realized now, that the Earthly flame was not created to destroy; it was created to rebuild nature from the ground up and all of its properties. Montag reached for the Bible on the forest floor and started to read a random page from it's chapters.
"During the last watch of the night the Lord looked down from the pillar of fire and cloud at the Egyptian army and threw it into confusion, Exodus 14:24." The fire of destruction was not of the Earth, but of the Heavens. Montag flashbacked. The flaming sword, the firey lake of Hell, the Pillar of Fire was all for God to use.
"Not for man," he said. "Not for man. He made water for Man to douse the flame, kneel to the king of all angels, and cleanse the mind and body. That was man's tool."
Montag reached for his pocket, and layed his golden dollar atop the book. And then he walked away, in reminiscence.
Who gave that feeling? It was by grace, he thought. Reminiscence.
Entering the outskirts of the taiga, Montag looked up into the blue morning sky only to see choppers scanning the surrounding area. The loud yet distant sound of blades slicing the crisp atmsosphere warned Montag. They told him to go, to leave, to run. And so he ran, back into the mysterious and trivial paths of the taiga.
Having reached the middle of the wilderness, Montag cried out to God. Cried out not because he wanted to worship, but because he wanted guidance. "Every book has a climax," Montag cried. "And this is mine!" He pulled out the flamethrower and kerosene, and then pulled the gas mask over his dirty face. I am going to rebuild nature, He thought. I'm the wildfire!
A team of dogs and officers nearby spotted Motag's dull olive green suit. "Hey, you! Over there!" He quickly turned around as the squadron leader gestured with two fingers, ordering the patrol to investigate. Montag pulled off the safety latch and let out all of his fury. The bright flame erected from the flamethrower like a projectile, it's smoke like poison. The patrol was quickly engulfed in the fire, leaving nothing behind except the ashes; and afterwards, the ashes were burned.
"Like old times," Montag said. Like old times. "Times when I was blind and ignorant, times when the patrol insignia was a badge of merit. But now was not the time for repentance, and so Montag disarmed his weapon and fled to the city.
two
M12A3 and the City
Crawling on his arms past the last of the police lines, Montag reached the city at noon. He quickly observed that the entire city was in turmoil; fires burned down the titans of industry, consumed the crops like pests, and blackened the atmosphere with a malice smoke. Choppers infested the air like locusts, and the jets like city pigeons flying over private property of all sorts. He sprinted to his house while his heart played a drum. His eyes filled the riverbed of dirt. His metal weapon rusted. His kevlar armour danced to his heart. Riverbeds filled from the clouds of guilt.
When Montag finally approached his burning hometown, his energy refuelled with motivaion. He swiftly kicked the broken door that lead to his living room down and threw it off 5 yards. he searched for his wife Mildred.
"Mildred!" Montag called. "Everything's okay, it's me! Your husband!" Nothing but the bombs and wailing sirens protruding the sound barrier from miles away. Montag bulged into the basement only to run into a black girl's carcass. He opened up her hand and found a note.
Dear Montag,
Here is some LSD. You are probaply careless at this point in time, so enjoy.
"No signature, dammit!" He cursed the Earth and threw Mildred's sleeping pills at the wall and kicked the spruce shelf onto it's side, knocking over all of the tools. "Wait- Unless..." Montag bent down to retrieve the sloppily written paper. He turned it over:
-Beatty
P.S: Are you missing something?
"But, that's not possible. I burned his living body!" Montag became confused and started a disproportional expression on his face. "But, what if that wasn't Beatty? Oh, screw it. I need to find my wife!" He pushed his way out of the hometown and sprinted to his brown Volvo. "Looks like we are going to Washington." Montag pressed his foot on the accelerator, the black tires kicking out a trail of tanned dust. The jet-black smog was the only silent specator besides evil. Evil and dust co-existed with one another as darkness and nothingness with glass barriers surrounded their scent of silence.
Montag wiped his forhead with the rifle strap around his chest and sniffed his transparent mucus back into his flared nostrils, then reaching for his communication headset. "Google, contact Beatty." The lifeless machine responded ever so cleary. It was like it had a conscience. "Calling, Beatty..." The mechanical voice seemed to trail off as it spoke more and more.
"Montag, it seems that you have crossed the-"
"No, Beatty, you have crossed the line! You always have!"
"Listen, paperboy. If you care about your wife, then you'll care about this. Come to Green Mile Prison and surrender your freedom for her life. The choice is yours, Montag. Abide by law and order judicially, and you will have what you have always wanted. To have her safe." Montag became silent for four seconds. "The choice is yours," and then the call was over.
Now Montag had a choice. He could fight for what was right; or on the opposite hand, turn himself in and save his wife. "Not under a corrupt republic," He said. "No one is going to bend or break me, no matter what you throw at me, Beatty; anything."
Minutes passed by, then hours, and then days, and then weeks. "Time seems to go by when you aren't having fun. Isn't that the way it has always worked?"
Now in the Volvo for less than a month, he finally arrived. Montag sped out of his car and dashed to the front of the eerie prison gate. Crumbled stone piled around the fortress of darkness, and the pollution reached the area from the city. All parts of Montag's body was striving for water and support, his organs dying. Shriveling. Consuming itself. Montag felt his heart ready to shut down. But, no... Montag can't. He couldn't. He shouldn't. He tried his best to keep on moving, but some unedible force prevented movement. He went from dead-on sprinting to limping, from motivated to dying. His eyes swelled up shut.
"Mildred..."
Colors flooded hisw mind. Dancing, flowing, they swirled around Montag's line of sight. Schizophrenic voices clouded his judgement, blinded it. The great python wrapped itself around his throat, stealing the life he had left.
"Do you know that books smell like nutmeg or some spice from a foreign land? I loved to smell them when I was a boy. Lord, there were a lot of lovely books once, before we let them go." Faber turned the pages. "Mr. Montag, you are looking at a coward."
"See how important you've become in the last minute!"
"Let me fix your pillow." "No!"
Montag felt fuzzy. He looked up, but was only able to budge his neck a few inches. Beatty smiled. "Remember me?"
"Do I have to?"
Beatty laughed."No. But you will want remember what I have to say: You can turn yourself in, save your wife, and it'll all be over; or, you can choose to be rebellious, and have your body become a military lab rat. Your choice, Montag.
Montag tried to break free of the bloody leather straps. "You poisoned me! This is limited government!"
Beatty put his latex-gloved hand over his mouth. "Shh, shh. You might wake the baby." Beatty took a television remote off of a counter next to montag that was holding surgical tools. He turned the screen on, revealing Mildred strapepd down to a table.
Montag screamed. "Beatty! You're a sick man! You can't do this!"
"But I will, unless you turn yourself in."
Montag had seen cliches like this on television, but had never prepared for it in real life. He was smart enough not to give Beatty what he wanted. "Never."
He moved his face right next to Montag's ear and smiled. "Bad choice." Beatty took an anesthetic needle from the table.
It was a pleasure to burn.
It was a 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 of some amazing conductor playing all the symphonies of blazing and burning to bring down the tatters and charcoal ruins of history. With his symbolichelmet numbered 451 on his stolid head, and his eyes all orange flame with the thought of what came next, he flickered the igniter and the house jumped 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 marshmallow on a stick in the furnace, while the flapping pigeon-winged books died on the porch and lawn of the house. While the books went up in sparkling whirls and blew away on a wind turned dark with burning.
Montag grinned the fierce grin of all men singed and driven back by flame.
one
Moment of Reminiscence
It was a moment of witness, for now it was no longer a pleasure to burn; it was a burden. No longer was it a special pleasure to see things devoured by the flames of Hell, to see things demolished within the crisp ambers of ashes; it is a burden. The bible states that you reap what you sow, and Montag knew that. He knew it since the very beginning, but his mind was clouded by judgement of the Earth and Man. He realized now, that the Earthly flame was not created to destroy; it was created to rebuild nature from the ground up and all of its properties. Montag reached for the Bible on the forest floor and started to read a random page from it's chapters.
"During the last watch of the night the Lord looked down from the pillar of fire and cloud at the Egyptian army and threw it into confusion, Exodus 14:24." The fire of destruction was not of the Earth, but of the Heavens. Montag flashbacked. The flaming sword, the firey lake of Hell, the Pillar of Fire was all for God to use.
"Not for man," he said. "Not for man. He made water for Man to douse the flame, kneel to the king of all angels, and cleanse the mind and body. That was man's tool."
Montag reached for his pocket, and layed his golden dollar atop the book. And then he walked away, in reminiscence.
Who gave that feeling? It was by grace, he thought. Reminiscence.
Entering the outskirts of the taiga, Montag looked up into the blue morning sky only to see choppers scanning the surrounding area. The loud yet distant sound of blades slicing the crisp atmsosphere warned Montag. They told him to go, to leave, to run. And so he ran, back into the mysterious and trivial paths of the taiga.
Having reached the middle of the wilderness, Montag cried out to God. Cried out not because he wanted to worship, but because he wanted guidance. "Every book has a climax," Montag cried. "And this is mine!" He pulled out the flamethrower and kerosene, and then pulled the gas mask over his dirty face. I am going to rebuild nature, He thought. I'm the wildfire!
A team of dogs and officers nearby spotted Motag's dull olive green suit. "Hey, you! Over there!" He quickly turned around as the squadron leader gestured with two fingers, ordering the patrol to investigate. Montag pulled off the safety latch and let out all of his fury. The bright flame erected from the flamethrower like a projectile, it's smoke like poison. The patrol was quickly engulfed in the fire, leaving nothing behind except the ashes; and afterwards, the ashes were burned.
"Like old times," Montag said. Like old times. "Times when I was blind and ignorant, times when the patrol insignia was a badge of merit. But now was not the time for repentance, and so Montag disarmed his weapon and fled to the city.
two
M12A3 and the City
Crawling on his arms past the last of the police lines, Montag reached the city at noon. He quickly observed that the entire city was in turmoil; fires burned down the titans of industry, consumed the crops like pests, and blackened the atmosphere with a malice smoke. Choppers infested the air like locusts, and the jets like city pigeons flying over private property of all sorts. He sprinted to his house while his heart played a drum. His eyes filled the riverbed of dirt. His metal weapon rusted. His kevlar armour danced to his heart. Riverbeds filled from the clouds of guilt.
When Montag finally approached his burning hometown, his energy refuelled with motivaion. He swiftly kicked the broken door that lead to his living room down and threw it off 5 yards. he searched for his wife Mildred.
"Mildred!" Montag called. "Everything's okay, it's me! Your husband!" Nothing but the bombs and wailing sirens protruding the sound barrier from miles away. Montag bulged into the basement only to run into a black girl's carcass. He opened up her hand and found a note.
Dear Montag,
Here is some LSD. You are probaply careless at this point in time, so enjoy.
"No signature, dammit!" He cursed the Earth and threw Mildred's sleeping pills at the wall and kicked the spruce shelf onto it's side, knocking over all of the tools. "Wait- Unless..." Montag bent down to retrieve the sloppily written paper. He turned it over:
-Beatty
P.S: Are you missing something?
"But, that's not possible. I burned his living body!" Montag became confused and started a disproportional expression on his face. "But, what if that wasn't Beatty? Oh, screw it. I need to find my wife!" He pushed his way out of the hometown and sprinted to his brown Volvo. "Looks like we are going to Washington." Montag pressed his foot on the accelerator, the black tires kicking out a trail of tanned dust. The jet-black smog was the only silent specator besides evil. Evil and dust co-existed with one another as darkness and nothingness with glass barriers surrounded their scent of silence.
Montag wiped his forhead with the rifle strap around his chest and sniffed his transparent mucus back into his flared nostrils, then reaching for his communication headset. "Google, contact Beatty." The lifeless machine responded ever so cleary. It was like it had a conscience. "Calling, Beatty..." The mechanical voice seemed to trail off as it spoke more and more.
"Montag, it seems that you have crossed the-"
"No, Beatty, you have crossed the line! You always have!"
"Listen, paperboy. If you care about your wife, then you'll care about this. Come to Green Mile Prison and surrender your freedom for her life. The choice is yours, Montag. Abide by law and order judicially, and you will have what you have always wanted. To have her safe." Montag became silent for four seconds. "The choice is yours," and then the call was over.
Now Montag had a choice. He could fight for what was right; or on the opposite hand, turn himself in and save his wife. "Not under a corrupt republic," He said. "No one is going to bend or break me, no matter what you throw at me, Beatty; anything."
Minutes passed by, then hours, and then days, and then weeks. "Time seems to go by when you aren't having fun. Isn't that the way it has always worked?"
Now in the Volvo for less than a month, he finally arrived. Montag sped out of his car and dashed to the front of the eerie prison gate. Crumbled stone piled around the fortress of darkness, and the pollution reached the area from the city. All parts of Montag's body was striving for water and support, his organs dying. Shriveling. Consuming itself. Montag felt his heart ready to shut down. But, no... Montag can't. He couldn't. He shouldn't. He tried his best to keep on moving, but some unedible force prevented movement. He went from dead-on sprinting to limping, from motivated to dying. His eyes swelled up shut.
"Mildred..."
Colors flooded hisw mind. Dancing, flowing, they swirled around Montag's line of sight. Schizophrenic voices clouded his judgement, blinded it. The great python wrapped itself around his throat, stealing the life he had left.
"Do you know that books smell like nutmeg or some spice from a foreign land? I loved to smell them when I was a boy. Lord, there were a lot of lovely books once, before we let them go." Faber turned the pages. "Mr. Montag, you are looking at a coward."
"See how important you've become in the last minute!"
"Let me fix your pillow." "No!"
Montag felt fuzzy. He looked up, but was only able to budge his neck a few inches. Beatty smiled. "Remember me?"
"Do I have to?"
Beatty laughed."No. But you will want remember what I have to say: You can turn yourself in, save your wife, and it'll all be over; or, you can choose to be rebellious, and have your body become a military lab rat. Your choice, Montag.
Montag tried to break free of the bloody leather straps. "You poisoned me! This is limited government!"
Beatty put his latex-gloved hand over his mouth. "Shh, shh. You might wake the baby." Beatty took a television remote off of a counter next to montag that was holding surgical tools. He turned the screen on, revealing Mildred strapepd down to a table.
Montag screamed. "Beatty! You're a sick man! You can't do this!"
"But I will, unless you turn yourself in."
Montag had seen cliches like this on television, but had never prepared for it in real life. He was smart enough not to give Beatty what he wanted. "Never."
He moved his face right next to Montag's ear and smiled. "Bad choice." Beatty took an anesthetic needle from the table.
| Credit | Ray Bradbury, author of ©Fahrenheit 451. |
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