Montag was cut in half. He felt his chest chopped down and split apart.

He says I'm a regular onion! I keep him busy peeling away the layers.

It's like a lesson in ballistics. It has a trajectory we decide on for it.

Empty the theaters 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.

A fountain of books sprang down upon Montag as he climbed shuddering up the sheer stairwell.

It's like a lot of funnels and a lot of water poured down the spout and out the bottom.

They fell like slaughtered birds, and the woman stood below, like a small girl, among the bodies.

I had both ears plugged with electronic bees that were humming the hour away.

Beatty was looking at him as if he were a museum statue.

Because I'm afraid, Montag thought. A child feigning illness, afraid to call because after a moment's discussion, the conversation would run badly.

We've got to start somewhere here, figuring out why we're in such a mess. We're heading right for the cliff, Millie. God, I don't want to go over.

The little mosquito-delicate dancing hum in the air, the electrical murmur of a hidden wasp snug in its special pink warm nest.