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- Рэй Брэдбери
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- 451 по фаренгейту
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- Стр. 141/158
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Montag
gave
one
last
agonized
shout
as
if
this
were
too
much
for
any
man
.
The
shape
exploded
away
.
The
eyes
vanished
.
The
leafpiles
flew
up
in
a
dry
shower
.
Montag
was
alone
in
the
wilderness
.
A
deer
.
He
smelled
the
heavy
musk-like
perfume
mingled
with
blood
and
the
gummed
exhalation
of
the
animal
's
breath
,
all
cardamon
and
moss
and
ragweed
odour
in
this
huge
night
where
the
trees
ran
at
him
,
pulled
away
,
ran
,
pulled
away
,
to
the
pulse
of
the
heart
behind
his
eyes
.
There
must
have
been
a
billion
leaves
on
the
land
;
he
waded
in
them
,
a
dry
river
smelling
of
hot
cloves
and
warm
dust
.
And
the
other
smells
!
There
was
a
smell
like
a
cut
potato
from
all
the
land
,
raw
and
cold
and
white
from
having
the
moon
on
it
most
of
the
night
.
There
was
a
smell
like
pickles
from
a
bottle
and
a
smell
like
parsley
on
the
table
at
home
.
There
was
a
faint
yellow
odour
like
mustard
from
a
jar
.
There
was
a
smell
like
carnations
from
the
yard
next
door
.
He
put
down
his
hand
and
felt
a
weed
rise
up
like
a
child
brushing
him
.
His
fingers
smelled
of
liquorice
.
He
stood
breathing
,
and
the
more
he
breathed
the
land
in
,
the
more
he
was
filled
up
with
all
the
details
of
the
land
.
He
was
not
empty
.
There
was
more
than
enough
here
to
fill
him
.
There
would
always
be
more
than
enough
.
He
walked
in
the
shallow
tide
of
leaves
,
stumbling
.
And
in
the
middle
of
the
strangeness
,
a
familiarity
.
His
foot
hit
something
that
rang
dully
.
He
moved
his
hand
on
the
ground
,
a
yard
this
way
,
a
yard
that
.
