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It was a special pleasure to see things eaten, to see things blackened and changed. With the brass nozzle in his fists, with this great python spitting its venomous kerosene upon the world, the blood pounded in his head, and his hands were the hands of some amazing conductor playing all the symphonies of blazing and burning to bring down the tatters and charcoal ruins of history. With his symbolic helmet numbered 451 on hos stolid head, and his eyes all orange flame with the thought of what came next, he flicked the igniter and the house jumped up in a gorging fire that burned the evening sky red and yellow and black. He strode in a swarm of fireflies. He wanted above all, like the old joke, to shove a marshmallow on a stick in the furnace, while the flapping pigeon-winged books died on the porch and lawn of the house. While the books went up in sparkling whirls and blew away on a wind turned dark with burning.
Montag grinned the fierce grin of all men singed and driven back by flame.
He knew that when he returned to the firehouse, he might wink at himself, a minstrel man, burnt-corked, in the mirror. Later, going to sleep, he would feel the fiery smile gripped by his face muscles, in the dark. It never went away, that smile, it never went away, as long as he remembered.
Fahrenheit 451: the temperature at which book-paper catches fire and burns.
Eg les ein del sci fi på si’, som ein del av mi skjønnlitterære danningsreise. I Fahrenheit 451 er me i ei post-litterær framtid, der lesing er forbode. Lesing fører til kunnskap og kunnskap fører berre til ulykke, så i staden fyller innbyggjarane kveldane med medikament og store skjermar. Framtidas brannmenn sløkk ikkje brannar, dei startar dei. Montag er ein av desse brannmennene, kunnskapssløkkjarane. Men viss å brenna bøker fører til eit gladare samfunn, kvifor er Montag så ulykkeleg?