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CODA from Fahrenheit 451

About two years ago, a letter arrived from a solemn young Vassar lady telling me how much she enjoyed my experiment in space mythology, The Martian Chronicles.

But, she added, wouldn’t it be a good idea, this late in time, to rewrite the book inserting more women’s characters and roles?

A few years before that I got a certain amount of mail concerning the same Martian book complaining that the blacks in the book were Uncle Toms and why didn’t I "do them over"?

Along about then came a note from a Southern white suggesting that I was prejudiced in favor of the blacks and the entire story should be dropped.

Two weeks ago my mountain of mail delivered forth a pipsqueak mouse of a letter from a well-known publishing house that wanted to reprint my story “The Fog Horn” in a high school reader.

In my story, I had described a lighthouse as having, late at night, an illumination coming from it that was a “God light.” Looking up at it from the viewpoint of any sea-creature one would have felt that one was in “the Presence.”

The editors had deleted “God-Light” and “in the Presence.”

Some five years back, the editors of yet another anthology for school readers put together a volume with some 400 (count ’em) short stories in it. How do you cram 400 short stories by Twain, Irving, Poe, Maupassant and Bierce into one book?

Simplicity itself. Skin, de bone, de marrow, scarify, melt, render down and destroy. Every adjective that counted, every verb that moved, every metaphor that weighed more than a mosquito - out! Every simile that would have made a sub-moron’s mouth twitch - gone! Any aside that explained the two-bit philosophy of a first-rate writer - lost!

Every story, slenderized, starved, blue penciled, leached and bled white, resembled every other story. Twain read like Poe read like Shakespeare read like Dostoevsky read like - in the finale - Edgar Guest. Every word of more than three syllables had been razored. Every image that demanded so much as one instant’s attention - shot dead.

Do you begin to get the damned and incredible picture?

How did I react to all of the above?

By “firing” the whole lot.

By sending them rejection slips to each and every one.

By ticketing the assembly of idiots to the far reaches of hell.

The point is obvious. There is more than one way to burn a book. And the world is full of people running about with lit matches. Every minority, be it Baptist / Unitarian, Irish / Italian / Octogenarian / Zen Buddhist, Zionist/Seventh-day Adventist, Women’s Lib/Republican, Mattachine/Four Square Gospel feel it has the will, the right, the duty to douse the kerosene, light the fuse. Every dimwit editor who sees himself as the source of all dreary blanc-mange plain porridge unleavened literature, licks his guillotine and eyes the neck of any author who dares to speak above a whisper or write above a nursery rhyme.

Fire-Captain Beatty, in my novel Fahrenheit 451, described how the books were burned first by the minorities, each ripping a page or a paragraph from the book, then that, until the day came when the books were empty and the minds shut and the library closed forever.

“Shut the door, they’re coming through the window, shut the window, they’re coming through the door,” are the words to an old song. They fit my lifestyle with newly arriving butcher/censors every month. Only six months ago, I discovered that, over the years, some cubby-hole editors at Ballantine Books, fearful of contaminating the young, had, bit by bit, censored some 75 separate sections from the novel. Students, reading the novel which, after all, deals with the censorship and book-burning in the future, wrote to tell me of this exquisite irony. Judy-Lynn Del Rey, one of the new Ballantine editors, is having the entire book reset and republished this summer with all the damns and hells back in place.

A final test for old Job II here: I sent a play, Leviathan 99, off to a university theater a month ago. My play is based on the “Moby Dick” mythology, dedicated to Melville, and concerns a rocket crew and a blind space captain who venture forth to encounter a Great White Comet and destroy the destroyer. My drama premiers as an opera in Paris this autumn. But, for now, the university wrote back that they hardly dared to my play - it had no women in it! And the ERA ladies on campus would descend with baseball bats if the drama department even tried!

Grinding my bicuspids into powder, I suggested that would mean, from now on, no more productions of Boys in the Band (no women), or The Women (no men), Or, counting heads, male and female, a good lot of Shakespeare that would never be seen again, especially if you count line and find that all the good stuff went to the males!

I wrote back maybe they should do my play one week, and The Women the next. They probably thought I was joking, and I’m not sure that I wasn’t.

For it is a mad world and it will get madder if we allow the minorities, be they dwarf or giant, orangutan or dolphin, nuclear-head or water-conversationalist, pro-computerologist or Neo-Luddite, simpleton or sage, to interfere with aesthetics. The real world is the playing ground for each and every group, to make or unmake laws. But the tip of the nose of my book or stories or poems is where their rights and my territorial imperatives begin, run and rule. If Mormons do not like my plays, let them write their own. If the Irish hate my Dublin stories, let them rent typewriters. If teachers and grammar school editors find my jawbreaker sentences shatter their mushmild teeth, let them eat stale cake dunked in weak tea of their own ungodly manufacture. If the Chicano intellectuals wish to re-cut my “Wonderful Ice Cream Suit” so it shapes "Zoot," may the belt unravel and the pants fall.

For, let’s face it, digression is the soul of wit. Take the philosophic asides away from Dante, Milton or Hamlet’s father’s ghost and what stays is dry bones. Laurence Sterne said it once: Digressions, incontestably, are the sunshine, the life, the soul of reading! Take them out and one cold eternal winter would reign in every page. Restore them to the writer - he steps forth like a bridegroom, bids them all-hail, brings in variety and forbids the appetite to fail.

In sum, do not insult me with the beheadings, finger-choppings or the lung-deflations you plan for my works. I need my head to shake or nod, my hand to wave or make into a fist, my lungs to shout or whisper with. I will not go gently onto a shelf, de gutted, to become a non-book.

All you umpires, back to the bleachers. Referees, hit the showers. It’s my game. I pitch, I hit, I catch. I run the bases. At sunset I’ve won or lost. At sunrise, I’m out again, giving it the old try.

And no one can help me. Not even you.

source:
Bradbury, Ray. Fahrenheit 451. Simon & Schuster, 2013. p.208–212.
Fahrenheit
451
source
Fahrenheit 451. Directed by François Truffaut, Universal Studios, 1966.
Blacked Out Words
In 1992, students at Venando Middle School in Irvine, California, were issued copies of the novel with numerous words blacked out. School officials had ordered teachers to use black markers to obliterate all of the "hells," "damns," and other words deemed "obscene" in the books before giving them to students as required reading. Parents complained to the school and contacted local newspapers, who sent reporters to write stories about the irony of a book that condemns bookburning and censorship being expurgated. Faced with such an outcry, school officials announced that the censored copies would no longer be used.

Source:
Sova, Dawn B. Banned Books: Literature Suppressed on Social Grounds. Revised ed.,
Facts on File, 2006. p. 135.
Next Censored Section
Number of Obscene Words
40 damns

16 hells

02 sex

01 abortion

Back to the Top
Responding to Censors
Bradbury wrote a response to the censoring of Fahrenheit 451 by the publisher, Balentine Books, from 1967–1979. This Coda was included in the subsequent printings of the fully restored, uncensored version of the book. Notice the parallels between this letter and the tone with which Captain Beatty speaks in the section to the right.

Read the Coda
Historical Context
Ray Bradbury wrote Fahrenheit 451 in 1953. Bradbury was heavily influenced by what was going on around him and the world. Some of these key historical and cultural events around this time were:


Next Censored Section
Censoring a Book
about Censorship
In 1967 Ballantine Books created a modified version of Fahrenheit 451 in an attempt to make the novel more appealing to school boards and educators as a classroom text. This new edition looked exactly like the original but the text was changed in over 100 places to “remove profanity and references to sexulaity, drinking, drug use, and nudity.” One of these modifications occurred in the section to the right. The word “navels” was replaced with “ears” because navels was deemed sexualy charged.
Source
Eller, Jonathan R. “The Story of Fahrenheit 451.” Fahrenheit 451: 60th Anniversary Edition, edited by Jonathan R. Eller, Simon & Schuster, 2013, p. 185.
Next Censored Section
It was a pleasure to burn.
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 his 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 still gripped by his face muscles,
in the dark. It never went away, that smile, it never ever went away,
as long as he remembered.
He hung up his black-beetle-coloured helmet and shined it, he hung his flameproof jacket neatly; he showered luxuriously, and then, whistling, hands in pockets, walked across the upper floor of the fire station and fell down the hole. At the last moment, when disaster seemed positive, he pulled his hands from his pockets and broke his fall by grasping the golden pole. He slid to a squeaking halt, the heels one inch from the concrete floor downstairs.
He walked out of the fire station and along the midnight street toward the subway where the silent, air-propelled train slid soundlessly down its lubricated flue in the earth and let him out with a great puff of warm
air and to the cream-tiled escalator rising to the suburb. Whistling, he let the escalator waft him into the still night air. He walked toward
the comer, thinking little at all about nothing in particular. Before
he reached the corner, however, he slowed as if a wind had sprung
up from nowhere, as if someone had called his name.
The last few nights he had had the most uncertain feelings about the sidewalk just around the corner here, moving in the starlight toward his house. He had felt that a moment before his making the turn, some-
one had been there. The air seemed charged with a special calm as if someone had waited there, quietly, and only a moment before he came, simply turned to a shadow and let him through. Perhaps his nose detected a faint perfume, perhaps the skin on the backs of his hands, on his face, felt the temperature rise at this one spot where a person’s standing might raise the immediate atmosphere ten degrees for an instant. There was no understanding it. Each time he made the turn, he saw only the white, unused, buckling sidewalk, with perhaps, on one night, something vanishing swiftly across a lawn before he could focus his eyes or speak.
But now, tonight, he slowed almost to a stop. His inner mind, reaching out to turn the corner for him, had heard the faintest whisper. Breathing? Or was the atmosphere compressed merely by someone standing very quietly there, waiting?
He turned the corner.
The autumn leaves blew over the moonlit pavement in such a way as to make the girl who was moving there seem fixed to a sliding walk, letting the motion of the wind and the leaves carry her forward. Her head was half bent to watch her shoes stir the circling leaves. Her face was slender and milk-white, and in it was a kind of gentle hunger that touched over everything with tireless curiosity. It was a look, almost, of pale surprise; the dark eyes were so fixed to the world that no move escaped them. Her dress was white and it whispered. He almost thought he heard the motion of her hands as she walked, and the infinitely small sound now, the white stir of her face turning when she discovered she was a moment away from a man who stood in the middle of the pavement waiting.
The trees overhead made a great sound of letting down their dry rain. The girl stopped and looked as if she might pull back in surprise, but instead stood regarding Montag with eyes so dark and shining and alive,
that
he felt he had said something quite wonderful. But he knew his mouth had only moved to say hello, and then when she seemed hypnotized by the salamander on his arm and the phoenix disc
on his chest, he spoke again.
Montag
“Of course,” he said, “you’re a new neighbour, aren’t you?”
Clarisse
“And you must be”—she raised her eyes from his professional symbols—“the fireman.” Her voice trailed off.
Montag
“How oddly you say that.”
Clarisse
“I’d-I’d have known it with my eyes shut,”
she said, slowly.
Montag
“What-the smell of kerosene? My wife always complains,” he laughed. “You never wash it off completely.”
Clarisse
“No, you don’t,” she said, in awe.
He felt she was walking in a circle about him, turning him end for
end, shaking him quietly, and emptying his pockets, without once moving herself.
Montag
“Kerosene,” he said, because the silence had lengthened, “is nothing but perfume to me.”
Clarisse
“Does it seem like that, really?”
Montag
“Of course. Why not?”
Clarisse
She gave herself time to think of it. “I don’t know.” She turned to face the sidewalk going toward their homes. “Do you mind if I walk back with you? I’m Clarisse McClellan.”
Montag
“Clarisse. Guy Montag. Come along. What are you doing out so late wandering around? How old are you?”
They walked in the warm-cool blowing night on the silvered pavement and there was the faintest breath of fresh apricots and strawberries in the air, and he looked around and realized this was quite impossible, so late in the year.
There was only the girl walking with him now, her face bright as snow in the moonlight, and he knew she was working his questions around, seeking the best answers she could possibly give.
Clarisse
“Well,” she said, “I’m seventeen and I’m crazy. My uncle says the two always go together. When people ask your age, he said, always say seventeen and insane. Isn't this a nice time of night to walk? I like to smell things and look at things, and sometimes stay up all night, walking, and watch the sun rise.”
Clarisse
They walked on again in silence and finally she said, thoughtfully, “You know, I’m not afraid of you at all.”
Montag
He was surprised. “Why should you be?”
Clarisse
“So many people are. Afraid of firemen, I mean. But you’re just a man, after all...”
He saw himself in her eyes, suspended in two shining drops of bright water, himself dark and tiny, in fine detail, the lines about his mouth, everything there, as if her eyes were two miraculous bits of violet amber that might capture and hold him intact. Her face, turned to him now, was fragile milk crystal with a soft and constant light in it. It was not the hysterical light of electricity but—what? But the strangely comfortable and rare and gently flattering light of the candle. One time, when he was a child, in a power-failure, his mother had found and lit a last candle and there had been a brief hour of rediscovery, of such illumination that space lost its vast dimensions and drew comfortably around them, and they, mother and son, alone, transformed,hoping that the power might not come on again too soon...
And then Clarisse McClellan said:
Clarisse
“Do you mind if I ask? How long have you worked at being a fireman?”
Montag
“Since I was twenty, ten years ago.”
Clarisse
“Do you ever read any of the books you bum?”
Montag
He laughed. “That’s against the law!”
Clarisse
“Oh. Of course.”
Montag
“It’s fine work. Monday burn Millay, Wednesday Whitman,
Friday Faulkner, burn ‘em to ashes, then burn the ashes. That’s
our official slogan.”
Clarisse
They walked still further and the girl said, “Is it true that long ago firemen put fires out instead of going to start them?”
Montag
“No. Houses. have always been fireproof, take my word for it.”
Clarisse
“Strange. I heard once that a long time ago houses used to burn by accident and they needed firemen to stop the flames.”
He laughed.
Clarisse
She glanced quickly over. “Why are you laughing?”
Montag
“I don’t know.” He started to laugh again and stopped “Why?”
Clarisse
“You laugh when I haven’t been funny and you answer right off. You never stop to think
what I’ve asked you.”
Montag
He stopped walking, “You are an odd one,” he said, looking at her. “Haven’t you any respect?”
Clarisse
“I don’t mean to be insulting. It’s just, I love to watch people too much, I guess.”
Montag
“Well, doesn’t this mean anything to you?” He tapped the numerals 451 stitched on his char colored sleeve.
Clarisse
“Yes,” she whispered. She increased her pace.
“Have you ever watched the jet cars racing
on the boulevards down that way?”
Montag
“You’re changing the subject!”
Clarisse
“I sometimes think drivers don’t know what grass
is, or flowers, because they never see them slowly,” she said. “If you showed a driver a green blur, Oh
yes! he’d say, that’s grass! A pink blur? That’s a rose-garden! White blurs are houses. Brown blurs are cows. My uncle drove slowly on a highway once. He drove forty miles an hour and they jailed him for two days. Isn’t that funny, and sad, too?”
Montag
“You think too many things,” said Montag, uneasily.
Clarisse
“I rarely watch the ‘parlor walls’ or go to races or Fun Parks. So I’ve lots of time for crazy thoughts, I guess. Have you seen the two-hundred-foot-long billboards in the country beyond town? Did you know that once billboards were only twenty feet long? But cars started rushing by so quickly they had to stretch the advertising out so it would last.”
Montag
“I didn’t know that!” Montag
laughed abruptly.
Clarisse
“Bet I know something else you don’t. There’s dew on the grass in the morning.”
He suddenly couldn’t remember if he had known this or not, and it made him quite irritable.
Clarisse
“And if you look”—she nodded at the sky—
“there’s a man in the moon.”
He hadn’t looked for a long time.
They walked the rest of the way in silence, hers thoughtful, his a kind of clenching and uncomfortable silence in which he shot her accusing glances. When they reached her house all its lights were blazing.
Montag
“What’s going on?” Montag had rarely seen that many house lights.
Clarisse
“Oh, just my mother and father and uncle sitting around, talking. It’s like being a pedestrian, only rarer. My uncle was arrested another time-did
I tell you? —for being a pedestrian. Oh, we’re
most peculiar.”
Montag
“But what do you talk about?”
Clarisse
She laughed at this. “Good night!” She started up her walk. Then she seemed to remember something and came back to look at him with wonder and curiosity. “Are you happy?” she said.
Montag
“Am I what?” he cried.
But she was gone-running in the moonlight. Her front door shut gently.
Montag
“Happy! Of all the nonsense.”
He stopped laughing.
He put his hand into the glove-hole of his front door and let it know his touch. The front door slid open.
Of course I’m happy. What does she think? I’m not? he asked the quiet rooms. He stood looking up at the ventilator grille in the hall and suddenly remembered that something lay hidden behind the grille, something that seemed to peer down at him now. He moved his eyes quickly away. What a strange meeting on a strange night. He remembered nothing like it save one afternoon a year ago when he had met an old man in the park and they had talked...
Montag shook his head. He looked at a blank wall. The girl’s face was there, really quite beautiful in memory: astonishing, in fact. She had a very thin face like the dial of a small clock seen faintly in a dark room in the middle of a night when you waken to see the time and see the clock telling you the hour and the minute and the second, with a white silence and a glowing, all certainty and knowing what it has to tell of the night passing swiftly on toward further darknesses but moving also toward a new sun.
“What?” asked Montag of that other self, the subconscious idiot that ran babbling at times, quite independent of will, habit, and conscience.
He glanced back at the wall. How like a mirror, too, her face. Impossible; for how many people did you know that refracted your own light to you? People were more often-he searched for a simile, found one in his work-torches, blazing away until they whiffed out. How rarely did other people’s faces take of you and throw back to you your own expression, your own innermost trembling thought?
Mildred
“There’s a Phoenix car just driven up and a man in a black shirt with an orange snake stitched on his arm coming up the front walk.”
Montag
“Captain Beatty?” he said,
Mildred
“Captain Beatty.”
Montag did not move, but stood looking into the cold whiteness of the wall immediately before him.
Montag
“Go let him in, will you?
Tell him I’m sick.”
Mildred
“Tell him yourself!”
She ran a few steps this way, a few steps that, and stopped, eyes wide, when the front door speaker called her name, softly, softly,
speaker
Mrs. Montag,
Mrs. Montag,
someone here,
someone here,
Mrs. Montag,
Mrs. Montag,
someone’s here.
Fading.
Montag made sure the book was well hidden behind the pillow, climbed slowly back into bed, arranged the covers over his knees and across his chest, half-sitting, and after a while Mildred moved and went out of the room and Captain Beatty strolled in, his hands in his pockets.
Beatty
“Shut the ‘relatives’ up,” said Beatty, looking around at everything except Montag
and his wife.
This time, Mildred ran. The yammering voices stopped yelling
in the parlor.
Captain Beatty sat down in the most comfortable chair with a peaceful look on his ruddy face. He took time to prepare and light his brass pipe and puff out a great smoke cloud.
Beatty
“Just thought I’d come by and see how the sick man is.”
Montag
“How’d you guess?”
Beatty smiled his smile which showed the candy pinkness of his gums and the tiny candy whiteness of his teeth.
Beatty
“I’ve seen it all. You were going
to call for a night off.”
Montag sat in bed.
Beatty
“Well,” said Beatty, “take
the night off!”
He examined his eternal matchbox, the lid of which said GUARANTEED: ONE MILLION LIGHTS IN THIS IGNITER, and began to strike the chemical match abstractedly, blow out, strike, blow out, strike, speak a few words, blow out. He looked at the flame. He blew, he looked at the smoke.
Beatty
“When will you be well?”
Montag
“Tomorrow. The next day maybe.
First of the week.”
Beatty
Beatty puffed his pipe. “Every fireman, sooner or later, hits this. They only need understanding, to know how the wheels run. Need to know the history of our pro-
fession. They don’t feed it to rookies like they used to.
Damn
shame.”
Puff.
Beatty
“Only fire chiefs remember
it now.”
Puff.
Beatty
“I’ll let you in on it.”
Mildred fidgeted.
Beatty took a full minute to settle himself in and think back for what he wanted to say.
Beatty
“When did it all start, you ask, this job of ours, how did it come about, where, when? Well, I’d say it really got started around about a thing called the Civil War. Even though our rule-book claims it was founded earlier. The fact is we didn’t get along well until photography came into its own. Then—motion pictures in the early twentieth century. Radio. Television. Things began to have mass.”
Montag sat in bed, not moving.
Beatty
“And because they had mass, they became simpler,” said Beatty. “Once, books appealed to a few people, here, there, everywhere. They could afford to be different. The world was roomy. But then the world got full of eyes and elbows and mouths. Double, triple, quadruple population. Films and radios, magazines, books levelled down to a sort of paste pudding norm, do you follow me?”
Montag
“I think so.”
Beatty peered at the smoke pattern he had put out on the air.
Beatty
“Picture it. Nineteenth-century man with his horses, dogs, carts, slow motion. Then, in the twentieth century, speed up your camera. Books cut shorter. Condensations, Digests. Tabloids. Everything boils down to the gag, the snap ending.”
Mildred
“Snap ending.” Mildred nodded.
Beatty
“Classics cut to fit fifteen-minute radio shows, then cut again to fill a two-minute book column, winding up at last as a ten- or twelve-line dictionary resume. I exaggerate, of course. The dictionaries were for reference. But many were those whose sole knowledge of Hamlet (you know the title certainly, Montag; it is probably only a faint rumor of a title to you, Mrs.Montag) whose sole knowledge, as I say, of Hamlet was a one-page digest in a book that claimed: ‘now at least you can read all the classics; keep up with your neighbors.’ Do you see? Out of the nursery into the college and back to the nursery; there’s your intellectual pattern for the past five centuries
or more.”
Mildred arose and began to move around the room, picking things up and putting them down. Beatty ignored her and continued.
Beatty
“Speed up the film, Montag, quick. Click? Pic? Look, Eye, Now, Flick, Here, There, Swift, Pace, Up, Down, In, Out, Why, How, Who, What, Where, Eh? Uh! Bang! Smack! Wallop, Bing, Bong, Boom! Digest-digests, digest-digest-digests. Politics?
One column, two sentences,
a headline! Then, in mid-air,
all vanishes! Whirl man’s
mind around about so fast
under the pumping hands
of publishers, exploiters, broadcasters, that the
centrifuge flings off
all unnecessary, time
wasting thought!”
Mildred smoothed the bedclothes. Montag felt his heart jump and jump again as she patted his pillow. Right now she was pulling at his shoulder to try to get him to move so she could take the pillow out and fix it nicely and put it back. And perhaps cry out and stare or simply reach down her hand and say, “What’s this?” and hold up the hidden book with touching innocence.
Beatty
“School is shortened, discipline relaxed, philosophies, histories, languages dropped, English and spelling gradually neglected, finally almost completely ignored. Life is immediate, the job counts, pleasure lies all about after work. Why learn anything save pressing buttons, pulling switches, fitting nuts and bolts?”
Mildred
“Let me fix your pillow,” said Mildred.
Montag
“No!” whispered Montag,
Beatty
“The zipper displaces the button and a man lacks just that much time to think while dressing at dawn, a philosophical hour, and thus a melancholy hour.”
Mildred
Mildred said, “Here.”
Montag
“Get away,” said Montag.
Beatty
“Life becomes one big pratfall, Montag; everything bang; boff, and wow!”
Mildred
“Wow,” said Mildred, yanking at the pillow.
Montag
“For God’s sake, let me be!” cried Montag passionately.
Beatty opened his eyes wide.
Mildred’s hand had frozen behind the pillow. Her fingers were tracing the book’s outline and as the shape became familiar her face looked surprised and then stunned. Her mouth opened to ask a question...
Beatty
“Empty the theatres save for clowns and furnish the rooms with glass walls and pretty colors running up and down the walls like confetti or blood or sherry or sauterne. You like baseball, don’t you, Montag?”
Montag
“Baseball’s a fine game.”
Now Beatty was almost invisible, a voice somewhere behind a screen of smoke.
Mildred
“What’s this?” asked Mildred, almost with delight.
Montag heaved back against her arms.
Mildred
“What’s this here?”
Montag
“Sit down!” Montag shouted. She jumped away, her hands empty. “We’re talking!”
Beatty went on as if nothing had happened.
Beatty
“You like bowling,
don’t you, Montag?”
Montag
“Bowling, yes.”
Beatty
“And golf?”
Montag
“Golf is a fine game.”
Beatty
“Basketball?”
Montag
“A fine game.”
Beatty
“Billiards, pool? Football?”
Montag
“Fine games, all of them.”
Beatty
“More sports for everyone, group spirit, fun, and you don’t have to think, eh? Organize and organize and super organize super-super sports. More cartoons in books. More pictures. The mind drinks less and less. Impatience. High-ways full of crowds going some where, somewhere, somewhere, nowhere. The gasoline refugee. Towns turn into motels, people in nomadic surges from place to place, following the moon tides, living tonight in the room where you slept this noon and I the night before.”
Mildred
went out of the room and slammed the door. The parlor “aunts” began to laugh at the parlor “uncles.”
“Now let’s take up the minorities in our civilization, shall we?
Bigger the population, the more minorities. Don’t step on the toes of the dog lovers, the cat lovers, doctors, lawyers, merchants, chiefs, Mormons, Baptists, Unitarians, second generation Chinese, Swedes, Italians, Ger-mans, Texans, Brooklynites, Irishmen, people from Oregon or Mexico. The people in this book, this play, this TV serial are not meant to represent any actual painters, cartographers, mech-anics anywhere. The bigger your market, Montag, the less you handle controversy, remember that! All the minor minor minorities with their
ears
to be kept clean. Authors, full of evil thoughts, lock up your type-writers. They did. Magazines became a nice blend of vanilla tapioca. Books, so the
damned
snobbish critics said, were dishwater. No wonder books stopped selling, the critics said. But the public, knowing what it wanted, spinning happily, let the comic books survive.
And the three-dimensional sex magazines, of course.
There you have it, Montag.
It didn’t come from the Government down. There was no dictum, no declaration, no censorship, to start with, no!
Technology, mass exploitation, and minority pressure carried the trick, thank God. Today, thanks to them, you can stay happy all the time, you are allowed to read comics,
the good old confessions,
or trade journals.”
Montag
“Yes, but what about the firemen, then?” asked Montag.
Beatty
“Ah.” Beatty leaned forward in the faint mist of smoke from his pipe. “What more easily explained and natural? With school turning out more runners, jumpers, racers, tinkerers, grabbers, snatchers, fliers, and swimmers instead of examiners, critics, knowers, and imaginative creators, the word intellectual,’ of course, became the swear word it deserved to be. You always dread the unfamiliar. Surely you remember the boy in your own school class who was exceptionally ‘bright,’ did most of the reciting and answering while the others sat like so many leaden idols, hating him. And wasn’t it this bright boy you selected for beatings and tortures after hours? Of course it was. We must all be alike. Not everyone born free and equal, as the Constitution says, but everyone made equal. Each man the image of every other; then all are happy, for there are no mountains to make them cower, to judge themselves against. So! A book is a loaded gun in the house next door? Burn it. Take the shot from the weapon. Breach man’s mind. Who knows who might be the target of the well-read man? Me? I won’t stomach them for a minute. And so when houses were finally fireproofed completely, all over the world (you were correct in your assumption the other night) there was no longer need of firemen for the old purposes. They were given the new job, as custodians of our peace of mind, the focus of our understandable and rightful dread of being inferior; official censors, judges, and executors. That’s you, Montag, and that’s me.”
The door to the parlor opened and Mildred stood there looking in at them, looking at Beatty and then at Montag. Behind her the walls of the room were flooded with green and yellow and orange fireworks sizzling and bursting to some music composed almost completely of trap-drums, tom-toms, and cymbals. Her mouth moved and she was saying something but the sound covered it.
Beatty knocked his pipe into the palm of his pink hand, studied the ashes as if they were a symbol to be diagnosed and searched for meaning.
Beatty
“You must understand that our civilization is so vast that we can’t have our minorities upset and stirred. Ask yourself, what do we want in this country, above all? People want to be happy, isn’t that right? Haven’t you heard it all your life? I want to be happy, people say. Well, aren’t they? Don’t we keep them moving, don’t we give them fun? That’s all we live for, isn’t it? For pleasure, for titillation? And you must admit our culture provides plenty of these.”
Montag
“Yes.”
Montag could lip-read what Mildred was saying in the doorway. He tried not to look at her mouth, because then Beatty might turn and read what was there, too.
Beatty
“Colored people don’t like Little Black Sambo. Burn it. White people don’t feel good about Uncle Tom’s Cabin. Burn it. Someone’s written a book on tobacco and cancer of the lungs? The cigarette people are weeping? Burn the book.

Serenity, Montag.

Peace, Montag.

Take your fight outside. Better yet, into the incinerator. Funerals are unhappy and pagan? Eliminate them, too. Five minutes after a person is dead he’s on his way to the Big Flue, the Incinerators serviced by helicopters all over the country. Ten minutes after death a man’s a speck of black dust. Let’s not quibble over individuals with memoriams. Forget them. Burn them all, burn everything. Fire is bright and fire is clean.”
The fireworks died in the parlor behind Mildred. She had stopped talking at the same time; a miraculous coincidence. Montag held
his breath.
Montag
“There was a girl next door,” he said, slowly. “She’s gone now, I think, dead. I can’t even remember her face. But she was different. How-how did she happen?”
Beatty
Beatty smiled. “Here or there, that’s bound to occur. Clarisse McClellan? We’ve a record on her family. We’ve watched them carefully. Heredity and environment are funny things. You can’t rid yourselves of all the odd ducks in just a few years. The home environment can undo a lot you try to do at school. That’s why we’ve lowered the kindergarten age year after year until now we’re almost snatching them from the cradle. We had some false alarms on the McClellan’s, when they lived in Chicago. Never found a book. Uncle had a mixed record; anti-social. The girl? She was a time bomb. The family had been feeding her subconscious, I’m sure, from what I saw of her school record. She didn’t want to know how a thing was done, but why. That can be embarrassing. You ask Why to a lot of things and you wind up very unhappy indeed, if you keep at it. The poor girl’s better off dead.”
Montag
“Yes, dead.”
Beatty
“Luckily, queer ones like her don’t happen, often. We know how to nip most of them in the bud, early. You can’t build a house without nails and wood. If you don’t want a house built, hide the nails and wood. If you don’t want a man unhappy politically, don’t give him two sides to a question to worry him; give him one. Better yet, give him none. Let him forget there is such a thing as war. If the Govern-ment is inefficient, top-heavy, and tax-mad, better it be all those than that people worry over it.

Peace, Montag.

Give
the people contests they win by remembering the words to more popular songs or the names of state capitals or how much corn Iowa grew last year. Cram them full of non-combustible data, chock them so
damned
full of ‘facts’ they feel stuffed, but absolutely ‘brilliant’ with information. Then they’ll feel they’re thinking, they’ll get a sense of motion without moving. And they’ll be happy, because facts of that sort don’t change. Don’t give them any slippery stuff like philosophy or sociology to tie things up with. That way lies melancholy. Any man who can take a TV wall apart and put it back together again, and most men can nowadays, is happier than any man who tries to slide-rule, measure, and equate the universe, which just won’t be measured or equated without making man feel bestial and lonely. I know, I’ve tried it; to
hell
with it. So bring on your clubs and parties, your acrobats and magicians, your dare-devils, jet cars, motorcycle helicopters, your
sex and heroin
, more of everything to do with automatic reflex. If the drama is bad, if the film says nothing, if the play is hollow, sting me with the Theremin, loudly. I’ll think I’m responding to the play, when it’s only a tactile reaction to vibration. But I don’t care. I just like solid entertainment.”
Beatty
Beatty got up. “I must be going. Lecture’s over. I hope I’ve clarified things. The important thing for you to remember, Montag, is we’re the Happiness Boys, the Dixie Duo, you and I and the others. We stand against the small tide of those who want to make everyone unhappy with conflicting theory and thought. We have our fingers in the dyke. Hold steady. Don’t let the torrent of melancholy and drear philosophy drown our world. We depend on you. I don’t think you realize how important you are,
to our happy world as it
stands now.”
Beatty shook Montag’s limp hand. Montag still sat, as if the house were collapsing about him and he could not move, in the bed. Mildred had vanished from the door.
Beatty
“One last thing,” said Beatty. “At least once in his career, every fireman gets an itch. What do the books say, he wonders. Oh, to scratch that itch, eh? Well, Montag, take my word for it, I’ve had to read a few in my time, to know what I was about, and the books say nothing! Nothing you can teach or believe. They’re about non-existent people, figments of imagination, if they’re fiction. And if they’re non-fiction, it’s worse, one professor calling another an idiot, one philosopher screaming down another’s gullet. All of them running about, putting out the stars and extinguishing the sun. You come away lost.”
Montag
“Well, then, what if a fireman accidentally, really not, intending anything, takes a book home with him?”
Montag twitched. The open door looked at him with its great
vacant eye.
Beatty
“A natural error. Curiosity alone,” said Beatty. “We don’t get over-anxious or mad. We let the fireman keep the book twenty-four hours. If he hasn’t burned it by then, we simply come and burn it for him.”
Montag
“Of course.” Montag’s mouth was dry.
Beatty
“Well, Montag. Will you take another, later shift, today? Will we see you tonight perhaps?”
Montag
“I don’t know,” said Montag.
Beatty
“What?” Beatty looked
faintly surprised.
Montag
Montag shut his eyes. “I’ll be in later. Maybe.”
Beatty
“We’d certainly miss you if
you didn’t show,” said Beatty,
putting his pipe in his
pocket thoughtfully.
I’ll never come in again, thought Montag.
Beatty
“Get well and keep well,”
said Beatty.
He turned and went out through the open door.
Montag watched through the window as Beatty drove away in his gleaming yellow-flame-colored beetle with the black, char-colored tires.
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