didn't come right out and accuse me, or name the book..."
"Can't you substitute another book for this?"
"I can't chance it. It might be a trap. If he expects me to bring a Bible and I brought something else, I'd be in jail very quickly. No, I'm afraid this Bible will be burned tonight."
"That's hard to accept." Faber took it for a moment and turned the pages, slowly, reading.
"I've tried to memorize it," said Montag. "But I forget. It's driven me crazy, trying to remember."
"Oh, God, if we only had a little time."
"I keep thinking that. Sorry." He took the book. "Good night."
The door shut. Montag was in the darkening street again, looking at the real world.
YOU could feel the war getting ready in the sky that night. The way the clouds moved aside and came back, and the way the stars looked, a million of them hovering between the clouds, like the enemy discs, and the feeling that the sky might fall upon the city and turn the homes to chalk dust, and the moon turn to red fire; that was how the night felt.
Montag walked from the subway stop with his money in His pocket — he had been to the bank which stayed open until all hours with mechanical tellers doling out the money — and as he walked he was listening abstractedly to the Seashell radio which you could cup to your ear (Buy a Seashell and hear the Ocean of Time!) and a voice was talking to him and only him as he turned his feet toward home. "Things took another turn for the worse today. War threatens at any hour."
Always the same monologue. Nothing about causes or effects, no facts, no figures, nothing but sudden turns for the worse.
Seven flights of jet-rockets went over the sky in a breath. Montag felt the money in his pocket, the Bible in his hand. He had given up trying to memorize it now; he was simply reading it for the enjoyment it gave, the simple pleasure of good words on the tongue and in the mind. He uncupped the Seashell radio from his ear and read another page of the Book of Job by moonlight.
AT EIGHT o'clock, the front door scanner recognized three women and opened, letting them in with laughter and loud, empty talk. Mrs. Masterson, Mrs. Phelps, and Mrs. Bowles drank the Martinis Mildred handed them, rioting like a crystal chandelier that someone has pushed, tinkling upon themselves in a million crystal chimes, flashing the same white smiles, their echoes repeated in empty corridors. Mr. Montag found himself in the middle of a conversation, the main topic of which was how nice everyone looked.
"Doesn't everyone look nice?"
"Real nice."
"You look fine, Alma."
"You look fine, too, Mildred."
"Everybody looks nice and fine," said Montag.
He had put the book aside. None of it would stay in his mind. The harder he tried to remember Job, for instance, the quicker it vanished. He wanted to be out paying this money to Professor Faber, getting things going, and yet he delayed himself. It would be dangerous to be seen at Faber's twice within a few hours, just in case Leahy was taking the precaution of having Montag watched.
Like it or not, he must spend the rest of the evening at home, and be ready to report to work at eleven so that Leahy wouldn't be suspicious. Most of all, Montag wanted to walk, but he rarely did this any more. Somehow he was always afraid that he might meet Clarisse, or not meet her again, on his strolls, so that kept him here standing among these blonde tenpins, bowling back at them with socially required leers and wisecracks.
Somehow the television set was turned on before they had even finished saying how nice everyone looked, and there on the screen was a man selling orange soda pop and a woman drinking it with a smile; how could she drink and smile simultaneously? A real stunt!
Following this, a demonstration of how to bake a certain new cake, followed by a rather dreary domestic comedy, a news analysis that did not analyze anything and
"Can't you substitute another book for this?"
"I can't chance it. It might be a trap. If he expects me to bring a Bible and I brought something else, I'd be in jail very quickly. No, I'm afraid this Bible will be burned tonight."
"That's hard to accept." Faber took it for a moment and turned the pages, slowly, reading.
"I've tried to memorize it," said Montag. "But I forget. It's driven me crazy, trying to remember."
"Oh, God, if we only had a little time."
"I keep thinking that. Sorry." He took the book. "Good night."
The door shut. Montag was in the darkening street again, looking at the real world.
YOU could feel the war getting ready in the sky that night. The way the clouds moved aside and came back, and the way the stars looked, a million of them hovering between the clouds, like the enemy discs, and the feeling that the sky might fall upon the city and turn the homes to chalk dust, and the moon turn to red fire; that was how the night felt.
Montag walked from the subway stop with his money in His pocket — he had been to the bank which stayed open until all hours with mechanical tellers doling out the money — and as he walked he was listening abstractedly to the Seashell radio which you could cup to your ear (Buy a Seashell and hear the Ocean of Time!) and a voice was talking to him and only him as he turned his feet toward home. "Things took another turn for the worse today. War threatens at any hour."
Always the same monologue. Nothing about causes or effects, no facts, no figures, nothing but sudden turns for the worse.
Seven flights of jet-rockets went over the sky in a breath. Montag felt the money in his pocket, the Bible in his hand. He had given up trying to memorize it now; he was simply reading it for the enjoyment it gave, the simple pleasure of good words on the tongue and in the mind. He uncupped the Seashell radio from his ear and read another page of the Book of Job by moonlight.
AT EIGHT o'clock, the front door scanner recognized three women and opened, letting them in with laughter and loud, empty talk. Mrs. Masterson, Mrs. Phelps, and Mrs. Bowles drank the Martinis Mildred handed them, rioting like a crystal chandelier that someone has pushed, tinkling upon themselves in a million crystal chimes, flashing the same white smiles, their echoes repeated in empty corridors. Mr. Montag found himself in the middle of a conversation, the main topic of which was how nice everyone looked.
"Doesn't everyone look nice?"
"Real nice."
"You look fine, Alma."
"You look fine, too, Mildred."
"Everybody looks nice and fine," said Montag.
He had put the book aside. None of it would stay in his mind. The harder he tried to remember Job, for instance, the quicker it vanished. He wanted to be out paying this money to Professor Faber, getting things going, and yet he delayed himself. It would be dangerous to be seen at Faber's twice within a few hours, just in case Leahy was taking the precaution of having Montag watched.
Like it or not, he must spend the rest of the evening at home, and be ready to report to work at eleven so that Leahy wouldn't be suspicious. Most of all, Montag wanted to walk, but he rarely did this any more. Somehow he was always afraid that he might meet Clarisse, or not meet her again, on his strolls, so that kept him here standing among these blonde tenpins, bowling back at them with socially required leers and wisecracks.
Somehow the television set was turned on before they had even finished saying how nice everyone looked, and there on the screen was a man selling orange soda pop and a woman drinking it with a smile; how could she drink and smile simultaneously? A real stunt!
Following this, a demonstration of how to bake a certain new cake, followed by a rather dreary domestic comedy, a news analysis that did not analyze anything and
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