god, thought montag , how true! always at night the alarm comes. never by day! is it because fire is prettier by night? more spectacle, a better show?

he felt she was walking in a circle about him, turning him end for end, shaking him quitely, and emptying his pockets, without once moving herself.

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 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 had to tell of the night passing swiftly on toward further darknesses, but moving also toward a new sun.

it’s fine work. monday burn millay, wednesday whiteman, friday faulkner, burn ‘em to ashes, then burn the ashes.

he felt that the stars had been pulverized by the sound of the black jets and that in the morning the earth would be covered with their dust like a strange snow.