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- 451 по фаренгейту
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- Стр. 36/158
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Next
thing
they
were
up
in
musty
blackness
,
swinging
silver
hatchets
at
doors
that
were
,
after
all
,
unlocked
,
tumbling
through
like
boys
all
rollick
and
shout
.
"
Hey
!
"
A
fountain
of
books
sprang
down
upon
Montag
as
he
climbed
shuddering
up
the
sheer
stair-well
.
How
inconvenient
!
Always
before
it
had
been
like
snuffing
a
candle
.
The
police
went
first
and
adhesive-taped
the
victim
's
mouth
and
bandaged
him
off
into
their
glittering
beetle
cars
,
so
when
you
arrived
you
found
an
empty
house
.
You
were
n't
hurting
anyone
,
you
were
hurting
only
things
!
And
since
things
really
could
n't
be
hurt
,
since
things
felt
nothing
,
and
things
do
n't
scream
or
whimper
,
as
this
woman
might
begin
to
scream
and
cry
out
,
there
was
nothing
to
tease
your
conscience
later
.
You
were
simply
cleaning
up
.
Janitorial
work
,
essentially
.
Everything
to
its
proper
place
.
Quick
with
the
kerosene
!
Who
's
got
a
match
!
But
now
,
tonight
,
someone
had
slipped
.
This
woman
was
spoiling
the
ritual
.
The
men
were
making
too
much
noise
,
laughing
,
joking
to
cover
her
terrible
accusing
silence
below
.
She
made
the
empty
rooms
roar
with
accusation
and
shake
down
a
fine
dust
of
guilt
that
was
sucked
in
their
nostrils
as
they
plunged
about
.
It
was
neither
cricket
nor
correct
.
Montag
felt
an
immense
irritation
.
She
should
n't
be
here
,
on
top
of
everything
!
Books
bombarded
his
shoulders
,
his
arms
,
his
upturned
face
.
A
book
alighted
,
almost
obediently
,
like
a
white
pigeon
,
in
his
hands
,
wings
fluttering
.
In
the
dim
,
wavering
light
,
a
page
hung
open
and
it
was
like
a
snowy
feather
,
the
words
delicately
painted
thereon
.
In
all
the
rush
and
fervour
,
Montag
had
only
an
instant
to
read
a
line
,
but
it
blazed
in
his
mind
for
the
next
minute
as
if
stamped
there
with
fiery
steel
.
"
Time
has
fallen
asleep
in
the
afternoon
sunshine
.
"
He
dropped
the
book
.
Immediately
,
another
fell
into
his
arms
.
"
Montag
,
up
here
!
"
Montag
's
hand
closed
like
a
mouth
,
crushed
the
book
with
wild
devotion
,
with
an
insanity
of
mindlessness
to
his
chest
.
The
men
above
were
hurling
shovelfuls
of
magazines
into
the
dusty
air
.
They
fell
like
slaughtered
birds
and
the
woman
stood
below
,
like
a
small
girl
,
among
the
bodies
.
Montag
had
done
nothing
.
His
hand
had
done
it
all
,
his
hand
,
with
a
brain
of
its
own
,
with
a
conscience
and
a
curiosity
in
each
trembling
finger
,
had
turned
thief
.
Now
,
it
plunged
the
book
back
under
his
arm
,
pressed
it
tight
to
sweating
armpit
,
rushed
out
empty
,
with
a
magician
's
flourish
!
Look
here
!
Innocent
!
Look
!
He
gazed
,
shaken
,
at
that
white
hand
.
He
held
it
way
out
,
as
if
he
were
far-sighted
.
He
held
it
close
,
as
if
he
were
blind
.
"
Montag
!
"
He
jerked
about
.
