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- Рэй Брэдбери
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- 451 по фаренгейту
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- Стр. 109/158
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Doors
slammed
and
the
house
was
empty
.
Montag
stood
alone
in
the
winter
weather
,
with
the
parlour
walls
the
colour
of
dirty
snow
.
In
the
bathroom
,
water
ran
.
He
heard
Mildred
shake
the
sleeping
tablets
into
her
hand
.
"
Fool
,
Montag
,
fool
,
fool
,
oh
God
you
silly
fool
...
"
"
Shut
up
!
"
He
pulled
the
green
bullet
from
his
ear
and
jammed
it
into
his
pocket
.
It
sizzled
faintly
.
"
...
fool
...
fool
...
"
He
searched
the
house
and
found
the
books
where
Mildred
had
stacked
them
behind
the
refrigerator
.
Some
were
missing
and
he
knew
that
she
had
started
on
her
own
slow
process
of
dispersing
the
dynamite
in
her
house
,
stick
by
stick
.
But
he
was
not
angry
now
,
only
exhausted
and
bewildered
with
himself
.
He
carried
the
books
into
the
backyard
and
hid
them
in
the
bushes
near
the
alley
fence
.
For
tonight
only
,
he
thought
,
in
case
she
decides
to
do
any
more
burning
.
He
went
back
through
the
house
.
"
Mildred
?
"
He
called
at
the
door
of
the
darkened
bedroom
.
There
was
no
sound
.
Outside
,
crossing
the
lawn
,
on
his
way
to
work
,
he
tried
not
to
see
how
completely
dark
and
deserted
Clarisse
McClellan
's
house
was
...
On
the
way
downtown
he
was
so
completely
alone
with
his
terrible
error
that
he
felt
the
necessity
for
the
strange
warmness
and
goodness
that
came
from
a
familiar
and
gentle
voice
speaking
in
the
night
.
Already
,
in
a
few
short
hours
,
it
seemed
that
he
had
known
Faber
a
lifetime
.
Now
he
knew
that
he
was
two
people
,
that
he
was
above
all
Montag
,
who
knew
nothing
,
who
did
not
even
know
himself
a
fool
,
but
only
suspected
it
.
And
he
knew
that
he
was
also
the
old
man
who
talked
to
him
and
talked
to
him
as
the
train
was
sucked
from
one
end
of
the
night
city
to
the
other
on
one
long
sickening
gasp
of
motion
.
In
the
days
to
follow
,
and
in
the
nights
when
there
was
no
moon
and
in
the
nights
when
there
was
a
very
bright
moon
shining
on
the
earth
,
the
old
man
would
go
on
with
this
talking
and
this
talking
,
drop
by
drop
,
stone
by
stone
,
flake
by
flake
.
His
mind
would
well
over
at
last
and
he
would
not
be
Montag
any
more
,
this
the
old
man
told
him
,
assured
him
,
promised
him
.
He
would
be
Montag-plus-Faber
,
fire
plus
water
,
and
then
,
one
day
,
after
everything
had
mixed
and
simmered
and
worked
away
in
silence
,
there
would
be
neither
fire
nor
water
,
but
wine
.
Out
of
two
separate
and
opposite
things
,
a
third
.
And
one
day
he
would
look
back
upon
the
fool
and
know
the
fool
.
Even
now
he
could
feel
the
start
of
the
long
journey
,
the
leave-taking
,
the
going
away
from
the
self
he
had
been
.
It
was
good
listening
to
the
beetle
hum
,
the
sleepy
mosquito
buzz
and
delicate
filigree
murmur
of
the
old
man
's
voice
at
first
scolding
him
and
then
consoling
him
in
the
late
hour
of
night
as
he
emerged
from
the
steaming
subway
toward
the
firehouse
world
.
