Fahrenheit 451 Quotes With Page Numbers Mga Nobela at Kwento

Zeke starts coughing, rushing to the door, pounding with both fists. ZEKE: (shouting) Open the door! Please! There’s someone here! He slams his shoulder against the door — useless. Smoke curls under the cracks. The temperature rises. Above him, the wooden ceiling creaks. ZEKE (V.O.): Am I... going to die? I don’t want to die... Flames burst from the ceiling. A burning beam crashes down, narrowly missing him. Zeke collapses to his knees, coughing violently. Tears blur his vision.

The slight particular change of someone encountering something that requires a moment before continuing. He finished. He did not speak immediately. She looked at him. “The last page,” he said finally, his voice carrying the quality it had when something had landed at depth. “You wrote about the kitchen. The first morning after sixty days. A woman standing with a cooling coffee meant for a man who never looked up. And then at the very end you came back to the kitchen. A different one. The same light.” “Yes,” she said. “The man is looking up now,” he said.

Before I could even think of closing my mouth the correction poured out of me. “Perfect,” I corrected. His eyebrows flew up at me as if asking me a question. His face was a mixture of curiosity, and annoyance. “The quote. It’s “The more a thing is perfect, the more it feels pleasure and pain,” I said, looking back into his dangerous eyes, “I’ve read this book more times then I can count.” “Is that so? I like my version better,” he said. “You like your version even though your version is wrong?” I said, giving him a mocking smile, "That sounds like something a typical man would say."

This was it—the answers she had been looking for. She only had to flip to page five hundred and thirty-nine, and she would get her answers. Her fingers shook as she flipped through the pages, reciting the page number like a mantra. Her heartbeat was increasing with every breath she took. Until she got to the page…

Bear. Box. On floor. _COURT._ All of it. Flashcards. _BAD MAN._ Burned. Subpoena. Ash already. Burned yesterday. Letter. _R._ Burned now. Levinson’s motion. 49 pages. Burned. Channel 4 printouts. Burned. _KNIGHTS CHOSE FAME OVER PEACE_ photo. Burned. _Thump-thump. Thump-thump._ Ivy. In my lap. Holding _HOME_ block. Last one. Wooden. Won’t burn.

I return my eyes to the book. "Please accept my apologies, I'm looking for the page," I apologize, and indeed through the corner of my eye I see Greece tempting to stand out enough to be noticed. Before I can turn my focus back to him and search for a method to find out what he wants, Justoedith hacks boisterously while giving me a light kick to the calf. The moment I take a look at her, she contacts her ear in a hidden way and an exceptionally low sleep: — page 53.— Then, when I open my book to the right page, I hear the voice of my beta :

He looked unrecognizable, yet somehow, that fire in his eyes that fucking fire remained as he refused to give up but he gave up the White Book. I saw it happen in real time, why the hell are they making me watch this? Is this a form of punishment for me? I know I deserve worse but I don't want to see him this way because of me. His jaw clenched as he spat out the code to the safe. “Three-six-four-nine-zero. You want the damn book? Go fetch it yourself, you motherfucker,” he growled through bloody teeth, he was doing all he could to endure the shit thrown at him.

He blows off the little specs of dust on the book before he starts to open up the page pages. “Just give me a minute,” he say as he starts to turn over each page meticulously. Suddenly, he seems to reach the pitch he has been looking for. “See!” he says with a high pitch- as if to tell me that the chance for him to prove himself has finally come. Then he points at a text in the book. “You can read it yourself,” he says and I start to read out loud. I read the text over and over again, about nine times before I fully understand it. The text actually agrees with Charles told me before.

“Then find me something they can’t burn.” ----

My fingertips touched the worn covers, the yellowed pages, the notes he had written in the margins in his slanted handwriting. “Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs.” Romeo and Juliet. I opened the book exactly to the page of the quote, as if my hands knew the way. I knew that passage by heart. How many times had we read it together, lying in bed, his head in my lap while I recited Shakespeare and he closed his eyes, a smile on his lips? “Ma’am?” One of the men approached, his voice hesitant. He was young, maybe twenty-something, and looked at me with a mixture of pity and discomfort. “Are you all right?”