“We’ve been wondering about you.” Leahy put a cigar in his mouth. “Every fireman goes through this. They only need understanding, need to know how the wheels run, what the history of our profession is. They don’t give it to rookies any more. Only fire chiefs remember it now. I’ll let you in on it.” He lit the cigar leisurely.
Mildred fidgeted.
“You ask yourself about the burning of books, why, how, when.” Leahy exuded a great gray cloud of smoke.
“Maybe,” said Montag.
“It started around about the Civil War, I’d say. Photography discovered. Fast printing presses coming up. Films at the early part of the Twentieth Century. Radio. Television. Things began to have mass, Montag, mass.”
“I see.”
“And because they had mass, they became simpler. Books now. Once they appealed to various small groups of people, here and there. They could afford to be different. The world was roomy. But then the world got full of mass and elbows. Films and radios and magazines and books had to level down to a sort of paste-pudding norm. Do you follow me?”
“I think so.”
Leahy looked through a veil of smoke, not at Montag, but at the thing he was describing. “Picture it. The nineteenth-century man with his horses, dogs, and slow living. You might call him a slow motion man. Then in the Twentieth Century you speed up the camera.”
“A good analogy.”
“Splendid. Books get shorter. Condensations appear. Digests. Tabloids. Radio programs simplify. Everything sublimates itself to the gag, the snap ending.”
“Snap ending.” Mildred nodded approvingly. “You should have heard last night—”
“Great classics are cut to fit fifteen minute shows, then two minute book columns, then two line digest resumes. Magazines become picture books! Out of the nursery to the college, back to the nursery, in a few short centuries!”
MILDRED AROSE. She was losing the thread of the talk, Montag knew, and when this happened she began to fiddle with things. She went about the room, picking up.
“Faster and faster the film, Mr. Montag! Quick, Click, Pic, Look, Eye, Now! Flick, Flash, Here, There, Swift, Up, Down, Why, How, Who, Eh? Mr. Montag, digest-digests, political affairs in one column, a sentence, a headline, and then, in mid-air, vanish! The mind of man, whirling so fast under the pumping hands of publishers, publicists, ad men, broadcasters that the centrifuge throws off all ideas! He is unable to concentrate!”
Mildred was smoothing the bed now. Montag felt panic as she approached his pillow to straighten it. In a moment, with sublime innocence, she would be pulling the hidden book out from behind the pillow and displaying it as if it were a reptile!
Leahy blew a cumulus of cigar smoke at the ceiling. “School is shortened, discipline relaxed, philosophies, histories, languages dropped, English and spelling neglected, finally ignored. Life is immediate. The job counts. Why learn anything save pressing buttons, pulling switches, fitting bolts?”
“Let me fix your pillow,” said Mildred, being the video housewife.
“No,” whispered Montag.
“The zipper replaces the button. Does a man have time to think while dressing in the morning, a philosophical time?”
“No,” said Montag, automatically.
Mildred tugged at the pillow.
“Get away,” said Montag.
“Life becomes one big Prat Fall, Mr. Montag. No more subtleties. Everything is bang and boff and wow!”
“Wow,” reflected Mildred, yanking the pillow edge.
“For God’s sake, let me be!” said Montag, passionately.
Leahy stared.
Mildred’s hand was frozen behind the pillow. Her hand was on the book, her face stunned, her mouth opening to ask a question …
“Theaters stand empty, Mr. Montag, replaced by television and baseball and sports where nobody has to think at all, not at all, at all.” Now Leahy was almost invisible, a voice somewhere back of a choking screen of cigar smoke.
“What’s this?” asked Mildred, with delight, almost. Montag crushed and heaved back against her hands. “What’ve you hid here?”
“Sit down!” Montag screamed. She jumped back, her hands empty. “We’re talking!”
LEAHY CONTINUED, MILDLY. “Cartoons everywhere. Books become cartoons. The mind drinks less and less. Impatience. Time to kill. No work, all leisure. Highways full of crowds going somewhere, anywhere, nowhere. The gasoline refugee, towns becoming motels, people in nomadic surges from city to city, impatient, following the moon tides, living tonight in the room where you slept last night and I the night before.”
Mildred went in the other room and slammed the door. She turned on the radio.
“Go on,” said Montag.
“Intelligent writers gave up in disgust. Magazines were vanilla tapioca. The book buyer, bored by dishwater, his brain spinning, quit buying. Everyone but the comic-publisher died a slow publishing death. There you have it. Don’t blame the Government. Technology, mass exploitation, and censorship from frightened officials did the trick. Today, thanks to them, you can read comic books, confessions, or trade journals, nothing else. All the rest is dangerous.”
“Yes, but why the firemen?” asked Montag.
“Ah,” said Leahy, leaning forward in the clouds of smoke to finish. “With schools turning out doers instead of thinkers, with non-readers, naturally in ignorance, they hated and feared books. You always fear an unfamiliar thing. ‘Intellectual’ became a swear word. Books were snobbish things.
“The little man wants you and me to be like him. Not everyone born free and equal, as the Constitution says, but everyone made equal. A book is a loaded gun in the house next door. Burn it. Take the shot out of the weapon. Un-breach men’s minds. Who knows who might be the target of the well-read man? And so, when houses became all fireproof and there was no longer need of firemen for protection, they were given the new job, as official censors, judges, jurors, punishers. That’s you, Mr. Montag, and me.”
Leahy stood up. “I’ve got to get going.”
Montag lay back in bed. “Thanks for explaining it to me.”
“You must understand our civilization is so vast that we can’t have our minorities upset and stirred. People must be contented. Books bother them. Colored people don’t like Little Black Sambo. We burn it. White people don’t like to read Uncle Tom’s Cabin. Burn it, too. Anything for serenity.”
Leahy shook Montag’s limp hand.
“Oh, one last thing. Once in his career, every fireman gets curious. What do the books say, he wonders. A good question. Well, they say nothing, Mr. Montag. Nothing you can touch or believe in. They’re about non-existent people, figments. Not to be trusted. But anyway, say, a fireman ‘takes’ a book, at a fire, almost by ‘accident.’ A natural error.”
“Natural.”
“We allow that. We let him keep it 24 hours. If he hasn’t burned it by then, we burn it for him.”
“I see,” said Montag. His throat was dry.
“You’ll be at work tonight at six o’clock?”
“No.”
“What!”
Montag shut his eyes. “I’ll be in later, maybe.”
“See that you do.”
“I’ll never come in again!” yelled Montag, but only in his mind.
“Get well.”
Leahy, trailing smoke, went out.
MONTAG WATCHED THROUGH THE FRONT window as Leahy drove away in his gleaming beetle which was the color of the last fire they had set.
Mildred had turned on the afternoon television show and was staring into the shadow screen.
Montag cleared his throat, but she didn’t look up.
“It’s only a step,” he said, “from not working today, to not working tomorrow, to not working ever again.”
“You’re going to work tonight, though?”
“I’m doing more than that,” he said. “I’m going to start to kill people and rave, and buy books!”
“A one man revolution,” said Mildred, lightly, turning to look at him. “They’d put you in jail, wouldn’t they?”
“That’s not a bad idea. The best people are there.” He put his clothes on, furiously, walking about the bedroom. “But I’d kill a few people before I did get locked up. There’s a real bastard, that Leahy. Did you hear him! Knows all the answers, but does nothing about it!”
“I won’t have anything to do with all this junk,” she said.
“No?” he said. “This is your house as well as mine, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Then I have something I want you to see, something I put away and never looked at again during the past year, not even knowing why I put them away and hid them and kept them and never told you.”
He dragged a chair into the hall, climbed up on it, and opened an air-vent. Reaching up, he began throwing books, big ones, little ones, red, yellow, green books, twenty, thirty, fifty books, one by one, swiftly, into the parlor at her feet. “There!”
“Leonard Montag! You didn’t!”
“So you’re not in this with me? You’re in it up to your neck!”
She backed away as if she were surrounded by a pack of terrible rats. Her face was paled out and her eyes were fastened wide and she was breathing as if someone had struck her in the stomach. “They’ll burn our house. They’ll kill us.”
“Let them try.”
She hesitated, then, moaning, she seized a book and ran toward the fireplace.
He caught her. “No, Millie! No! Never touch my books. Never. Or, by God, if you do, touch just one of them meaning to burn it, believe me, Millie, I’ll kill you.”
“Leonard Montag! You wouldn’t!”
HE SHOOK HER. “Listen,” he pleaded down into her face. He held her shoulders firmly, while her face bobbed helplessly, and tears sprang from her eyes.
“You must help me,” he said, slowly, trying to find his way into her thinking. “You’re in this now, whether you like it or not. I’ve never asked for anything in my life of you, but I ask it now, I plead it.
We just start somewhere. We’re going to read books. It’s a thing we haven’t done and must do. We’ve got to know what these books are so we can tell others, and so that, eventually, they can tell
