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- Рэй Брэдбери
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- 451 по фаренгейту
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- Стр. 150/158
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"
It
is
,
"
replied
Granger
,
smiling
.
"
We
're
book-burners
,
too
.
We
read
the
books
and
burnt
them
,
afraid
they
'd
be
found
.
Micro-filming
did
n't
pay
off
;
we
were
always
travelling
,
we
did
n't
want
to
bury
the
film
and
come
back
later
.
Always
the
chance
of
discovery
.
Better
to
keep
it
in
the
old
heads
,
where
no
one
can
see
it
or
suspect
it
.
We
are
all
bits
and
pieces
of
history
and
literature
and
international
law
,
Byron
,
Tom
Paine
,
Machiavelli
,
or
Christ
,
it
's
here
.
And
the
hour
is
late
.
And
the
war
's
begun
.
And
we
are
out
here
,
and
the
city
is
there
,
all
wrapped
up
in
its
own
coat
of
a
thousand
colours
.
What
do
you
think
,
Montag
?
"
"
I
think
I
was
blind
trying
to
do
things
my
way
,
planting
books
in
firemen
's
houses
and
sending
in
alarms
.
"
"
You
did
what
you
had
to
do
.
Carried
out
on
a
national
scale
,
it
might
have
worked
beautifully
.
But
our
way
is
simpler
and
,
we
think
,
better
.
All
we
want
to
do
is
keep
the
knowledge
we
think
we
will
need
,
intact
and
safe
.
We
're
not
out
to
incite
or
anger
anyone
yet
.
For
if
we
are
destroyed
,
the
knowledge
is
dead
,
perhaps
for
good
.
We
are
model
citizens
,
in
our
own
special
way
;
we
walk
the
old
tracks
,
we
lie
in
the
hills
at
night
,
and
the
city
people
let
us
be
.
We
're
stopped
and
searched
occasionally
,
but
there
's
nothing
on
our
persons
to
incriminate
us
.
The
organization
is
flexible
,
very
loose
,
and
fragmentary
.
Some
of
us
have
had
plastic
surgery
on
our
faces
and
fingerprints
.
Right
now
we
have
a
horrible
job
;
we
're
waiting
for
the
war
to
begin
and
,
as
quickly
,
end
.
It
's
not
pleasant
,
but
then
we
're
not
in
control
,
we
're
the
odd
minority
crying
in
the
wilderness
.
When
the
war
's
over
,
perhaps
we
can
be
of
some
use
in
the
world
.
"
"
Do
you
really
think
they
'll
listen
then
?
"
"
If
not
,
we
'll
just
have
to
wait
.
We
'll
pass
the
books
on
to
our
children
,
by
word
of
mouth
,
and
let
our
children
wait
,
in
turn
,
on
the
other
people
.
A
lot
will
be
lost
that
way
,
of
course
.
But
you
ca
n't
make
people
listen
.
They
have
to
come
round
in
their
own
time
,
wondering
what
happened
and
why
the
world
blew
up
under
them
.
It
ca
n't
last
.
"
"
How
many
of
you
are
there
?
"
"
Thousands
on
the
roads
,
the
abandoned
railtracks
,
tonight
,
burns
on
the
outside
,
libraries
inside
.
It
was
n't
planned
,
at
first
.
Each
man
had
a
book
he
wanted
to
remember
,
and
did
.
Then
,
over
a
period
of
twenty
years
or
so
,
we
met
each
other
,
travelling
,
and
got
the
loose
network
together
and
set
out
a
plan
.
The
most
important
single
thing
we
had
to
pound
into
ourselves
was
that
we
were
not
important
,
we
must
n't
be
pedants
;
we
were
not
to
feel
superior
to
anyone
else
in
the
world
.
We
're
nothing
more
than
dust-jackets
for
books
,
of
no
significance
otherwise
.
Some
of
us
live
in
small
towns
.
Chapter
One
of
Thoreau
's
Walden
in
Green
River
,
Chapter
Two
in
Willow
Farm
,
Maine
.
Why
,
there
's
one
town
in
Maryland
,
only
twenty-seven
people
,
no
bomb
'll
ever
touch
that
town
,
is
the
complete
essays
of
a
man
named
Bertrand
Russell
.
Pick
up
that
town
,
almost
,
and
flip
the
pages
,
so
many
pages
to
a
person
.
And
when
the
war
's
over
,
some
day
,
some
year
,
the
books
can
be
written
again
,
the
people
will
be
called
in
,
one
by
one
,
to
recite
what
they
know
and
we
'll
set
it
up
in
type
until
another
Dark
Age
,
when
we
might
have
to
do
the
whole
damn
thing
over
again
.
But
that
's
the
wonderful
thing
about
man
;
he
never
gets
so
discouraged
or
disgusted
that
he
gives
up
doing
it
all
over
again
,
because
he
knows
very
well
it
is
important
and
worth
the
doing
.
"
"
What
do
we
do
tonight
?
"
asked
Montag
.
