My mind brings up a line from the poem i read last night '
the rain set in early tonight..' thats how the weather feels now, only its not night yet, at half three the grass is too bright against the dull grey sky, with a line of brown for a hedge, somewhere past the crest of the hill. It reminds me of some painting where the colours havent been blended properly, or muted down enough to seem real. I can hear the rain pooring on to the paving flags surrounding the house, can imagine it splashing off leaves in big, fat, continuous drops. From where im sitting i cant see the golden leaves of the autumn oak, which always looks too warm and comforting at this time of year, when the rest of the world has turned dull and drear, and the long wait for spring's flowers -heralded by the delicate snowdrop- begins.
Strange things to be thinking after finishing this book, but what first sprang to mind after the end of a story thats been described as 'hauntingly prophetic' is that i can't imagine it coming true. Dimly i am aware of rumours of people who spend their hours in front of the t.v. screen, unaware of the world around them, but maybe because my world is so apart from that, i'm in denial of it ever being true and can't really believe that the warning this book gives is likely to have any real effect.
But then it is only a book, and dystopias are strange in their fortelling-of-horror ways.
Fahrenheit 451 has been lurking on the edges of my life for some time, waiting to be picked up and read, i think i've only managed it now because before i was unable to see past the strangeness in the way it is written, particularly at the start. But it is definitely past working through this strangeness, as the story beneath is quite fascinating. A world where people have t.v. 'parlours' with giant screens for each wall. A place where they are able to shout nothingness to their 'family' and live without taking any time to stop and think for themselves, just absorb what is fed them in multi-dimentional, 3D, Hight Definition, Surround Sound. A world, set some un-specified time in the future where wars can take place but people take no notice of them. Where millions of books are banned and the posession of them brings firefighters to your door, to burn your house down with gushing streams of kerosene.
The sky outside has now turned a murky blue, cerulean mixed with a touch of lamp black, the grass slope leading up to it is bright sap green, with dashes of veridian slased across it. The hedge at the top is a dark burnt umber, the trees behind seem to be uniform splodges of burnt sienna. Two poplars reach up into the blue, high above the squater oaks. Every now and then i see the flash of headlamps through the hedge, the only sign of the road hidden behind it.
In this world people turn away from books and education, not by force but of their own violation, and i guess that is the shocking thing. It is only later when governments see the use in having people who don't question them, and decide to force out those who still cling to the old traditions. People seen walking slowly are thought to be crazy, and driving below 55mph is illegal. Billboards are stretched out, because people go so fast they're unable to see the old ones. Even the bible is baned and 'christ' has been made up on the screens to sell cleaning products to the eager viewers at home.
I don't know where this review is going :P
Guy Montag is a fireman, and this story follows his transformation from unquestioning follower, to someone who wakes up to the madness around him. The whole book seems to flow in a daze, like someone who is too tired to fix on things, but lets them flow around him without clear focus. Yet this doesnt mean that its filled with waffle, the books is short and the dull sense of it is clean and powerful to read. I found the speeches other characters gave to Guy particularly interesting, two of them i'll type below.
"Do you know why books such as these are important? Because they have quality. And what does the word quality mean? To me it means texture. This book has pores. It has features. This book can go under the microscope. You'd find life under the glass, streaming past in infinite profusion. The more pores, the more truthfully recorded details per square inch, you can get on a sheet of paper, the more 'literary' you are. Thats my definition anyway. Telling detail. Fresh detail. The good writers touch life often, the mediocre ones run a hand over her. The bad ones rape her and leave her for the flies' Pt. 2, p.83. Faber talknig to Montag about the bible.
Granger -> Montag, p.15o, part III
"Everyone must leave something behind when he dies, my grandfather said. A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you're there. It doesn't matter what you do, he said, so long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that's like you after you take your hands away."
This strange little book will make you think, and doesnt seem to have as much fame as one would think. I guess whether your into this type of thing or not its worth reading it, and while it makes you think it isn't challenging or too high and mighty for mere mortals to read. Even though i've probably missed a few of the higher themes. Although not likely to ever really happen, it is quite disturbing ;P
- poetry in first paragraph from porphyria's lover, by Browning.
