Novel & Cerita Fahrenheit 451 Audiobook Part 1

Hand on the knob. The house burned behind her, slowly, elegantly. The kind of fire that didn’t destroy, only reminded you what had already been lost. She didn’t look back. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t cry. She turned the handle. The door creaked open. And behind it, There was no sky. No ground, Just a single chair. Facing away from her. Someone sat in it. Reading, A book made of bone. Their voice hummed. And the page they read out loud was Chapter 101.

I frantically adjusted the signal transmitter, my throat raw as I spoke out. “Ben! The brakes and doors have been tampered with! Send someone now!” However, all that reached me was the static hiss of electricity. From the other side came the faint scrape of a chair and the tap of keys. Then Mandy’s anxious voice cut in. “Sigh, I really don’t know how far Jane wants to take this car. The fire is already huge, and she still won’t slow down or stop. “Are those empty honors really more important than her life?”

It arrived without being sent for, and she let it be there, alone in her office at six forty-five on an ordinary Tuesday. She typed: *How badly?* *Overcooked by several minutes. I was reading.* *What were you reading?* *The book Felix gave me. Third attempt at chapter four.* She thought about this. *Is chapter four the problem, or is Felix the problem?* *Felix recommended it sincerely. Chapter four is dense. I am persisting.* *Persist through chapter four,* she typed. *It gets better.* A pause. *You've read it?* *Two years ago. Different edition, probably. Same chapter four.*

In April of the thirty-first year, on a Saturday evening, Don read Ernest the first section of the fourth book. The reading had been established as the form of sharing across three previous books — the reading aloud in the sitting room, the listener in the chair, the fire or the lack of fire depending on the season. April was past the fire in the thirty-first year as it had been past the fire in most of the previous Aprils. The sitting room had the quality of the late spring evening — the windows open to the garden, the sound of the birds in the last of the light, the specific quality of the building when it was warm enough that the fire was not necessary but cool enough that the evening had

It was hot. "Is it time?" Ignatius asked. "Time for what?" "Chapter one." Ignatius leaned his head back against the seat. His breathing slowed. It became the deep, rhythmic heave of a child falling into a dream. "The part where we're friends. Before the screaming starts."

is all I can say. We reach the courtyard, "Ready, little mistress?" I cover my eyes, and I start loudly counting to twenty. I listen to Eurydice beating feet on the stone floors, echoing away from me. From the direction of the sound, she was heading towards the kitchens. Vesuvius decides to grumble. The earth starts to shake harder than all the previous times. I stop counting, trying to keep my balance. Then something crashes, and there is a painful wail of a child.

Chapter 41: The First Night The fire in the stone hearth crackled with a mocking warmth. It cast long and dancing shadows against the walls where the severed heads of beasts stared down at me with glass eyes. I sat in the heavy velvet armchair facing the door. My knuckles were white where I gripped the iron fire poker.

I could not see with my heart ripped from my chest, everything taken away from me. THIS IS THE END OF PART A. THE NEXT CHAPTER WILL BE A PROLOGUE FOR PART B OF THIS BOOK.

Drunk is better. I open a full bottle of whisky and drink a fourth of it down in one swallow. The burn is exactly what I need in order to forget. I fear the smell of Laryn's bride's scorched flesh will haunt me forever. I take another drink and sink back against the pillow*s. Through my bleary eyes, I gaze at the door when I hear it open. She's lovely. She also appears angry when she looks from me to the two women. I think her name is Sierra. Sarn's story next... END OF PART TWO

He had been reading, not working, the book open on his knee and the light from the south window moving across the page in the way the January light moved: slowly, with the quality of something returning rather than arriving, the year beginning its lengthening in the increments too small to see from day to day but present in the afternoon as a warmth that had not been there in December. He answered and heard the kitchen behind her — the particular acoustic of the rented kitchen, the slight echo off the hard surfaces, the sound of the room he had sat in in November with the flour on the wrist and the dough in the bowl. "I've looked at the section," Frances said. Not: thank you for sending it.