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- Рэй Брэдбери
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- 451 по фаренгейту
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- Стр. 156/158
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Montag
watched
the
great
dust
settle
and
the
great
silence
move
down
upon
their
world
.
And
lying
there
it
seemed
that
he
saw
every
single
grain
of
dust
and
every
blade
of
grass
and
that
he
heard
every
cry
and
shout
and
whisper
going
up
in
the
world
now
.
Silence
fell
down
in
the
sifting
dust
,
and
all
the
leisure
they
might
need
to
look
around
,
to
gather
the
reality
of
this
day
into
their
senses
.
Montag
looked
at
the
river
.
We
'll
go
on
the
river
.
He
looked
at
the
old
railroad
tracks
.
Or
we
'll
go
that
way
.
Or
we
'll
walk
on
the
highways
now
,
and
we
'll
have
time
to
put
things
into
ourselves
.
And
some
day
,
after
it
sets
in
us
a
long
time
,
it
'll
come
out
of
our
hands
and
our
mouths
.
And
a
lot
of
it
will
be
wrong
,
but
just
enough
of
it
will
be
right
.
We
'll
just
start
walking
today
and
see
the
world
and
the
way
the
world
walks
around
and
talks
,
the
way
it
really
looks
.
I
want
to
see
everything
now
.
And
while
none
of
it
will
be
me
when
it
goes
in
,
after
a
while
it
'll
all
gather
together
inside
and
it
'll
be
me
.
Look
at
the
world
out
there
,
my
God
,
my
God
,
look
at
it
out
there
,
outside
me
,
out
there
beyond
my
face
and
the
only
way
to
really
touch
it
is
to
put
it
where
it
's
finally
me
,
where
it
's
in
the
blood
,
where
it
pumps
around
a
thousand
times
ten
thousand
a
day
.
I
get
hold
of
it
so
it
'll
never
run
off
.
I
'll
hold
on
to
the
world
tight
some
day
.
I
've
got
one
finger
on
it
now
;
that
's
a
beginning
.
The
wind
died
.
The
other
men
lay
a
while
,
on
the
dawn
edge
of
sleep
,
not
yet
ready
to
rise
up
and
begin
the
day
's
obligations
,
its
fires
and
foods
,
its
thousand
details
of
putting
foot
after
foot
and
hand
after
hand
.
They
lay
blinking
their
dusty
eyelids
.
You
could
hear
them
breathing
fast
,
then
slower
,
then
slow
...
Montag
sat
up
.
He
did
not
move
any
further
,
however
.
The
other
men
did
likewise
.
The
sun
was
touching
the
black
horizon
with
a
faint
red
tip
.
The
air
was
cold
and
smelled
of
a
coming
rain
.
Silently
,
Granger
arose
,
felt
his
arms
,
and
legs
,
swearing
,
swearing
incessantly
under
his
breath
,
tears
dripping
from
his
face
.
He
shuffled
down
to
the
river
to
look
upstream
.
"
It
's
flat
,
"
he
said
,
a
long
time
later
.
"
City
looks
like
a
heap
of
baking-powder
.
It
's
gone
.
"
And
a
long
time
after
that
.
"
I
wonder
how
many
knew
it
was
coming
?
I
wonder
how
many
were
surprised
?
"
And
across
the
world
,
thought
Montag
,
how
many
other
cities
dead
?
And
here
in
our
country
,
how
many
?
A
hundred
,
a
thousand
?
Someone
struck
a
match
and
touched
it
to
a
piece
of
dry
paper
taken
from
their
pocket
,
and
shoved
this
under
a
bit
of
grass
and
leaves
,
and
after
a
while
added
tiny
twigs
which
were
wet
and
sputtered
but
finally
caught
,
and
the
fire
grew
larger
in
the
early
morning
as
the
sun
came
up
and
the
men
slowly
turned
from
looking
up
river
and
were
drawn
to
the
fire
,
awkwardly
,
with
nothing
to
say
,
and
the
sun
coloured
the
backs
of
their
necks
as
they
bent
down
.
