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Zen in the Art of WritingI own books, but don't read them!" Montag, in shock, awaits Beatty's explanation. "Don't you see the beauty, Montag? I never read them. Not one book, not one chapter, not one page, not one paragraph. I do play with ironies, don't I? To have thousands of books and never crack one, to turn your back on the lot and say: No. It's like having a house full of beautiful women and, smiling, not touching one. So, you see, I'm not a criminal at all. If you ever catch me reading one, yes, then turn me in! But this place is as pure as a twelveyearold virgin girl's cream-white summer night bedroom. These books die on the shelves. Why? Because I say so. I do not give them sustenance, no hope with hand or eye or tongue. They are no better than dust." Montag protests, "I don't see how you can't be-" "Tempted?" cries the Fire Chief. "Oh, that was long ago. The apple is eaten and gone. The snake has returned to its tree. The garden has grown to weed and rust." "Once-" Montag hesitates, then continues, "Once you must have loved books very much." "Touche!" the Fire Chief responds. "Below the belt. On the chin. Through the heart. Ripping the gut ...» |
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