Fahrenheit 451DVD - 2018
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Do you want to know what's inside all these books? Insanity. The Eels want to measure their place in the universe, so they turn to these novels about non-existent people. Or worse, philosophers. Look, here's Spinoza. One expert screaming down another expert's throat. "We have free will." "No, all of our actions are predetermined." Each one says the opposite, and a man comes away lost, feeling more... bestial and lonely than before. Now, if you don't want a person unhappy, you don't give them two sides of a question to worry about.
- Just give 'em one.
Better yet, none.
Can you tell us anything about what's inside?
-Nothing that can't burn at 451 degrees.
Why we do burn?
- For happiness, ain't that right, fellas?
I'm not fire... I'm fire +100. I'm molten lava on graffiti. They call me a walking incinerator for happiness. Damn, it's a pleasure to burn!
Have you ever thought, even for one second, why you do what you do?
You should try reading before burning.
How can we see anything but the fire shadows in the cave... if we're never allowed to move our heads?
-What does that mean?
If you can read, you can talk.
-Play the man, Master Ridley. We shall this day light such a candle, by God's grace, as I trust shall never be put out.
(From Hugh Latimer)
Kafka. A pornographer and a sexual pervert. I like that about him.
Before bots and the rise of automated writing, we had jobs for journalists...
She'd spend weeks, sometimes months, investigating a story, and then she'd publish a series of articl... dreds, even thousands of words long on physical paper and the Internet, or the 9, today, which everyone was free to read. But nobody was reading anymore, or they were just glancing at the headlines generated by an algorithm... Thousands of words?
-Ugh. In your pathetic time, were people happy?
No. There were so many millions of opinions that our country slid into the Second Civil War. Eight million dead, including my father.
Your father must have been old enough to remember a time when firemen put fires out instead of starting them.
Benjamin Franklin, the founder of our first fire department, gave us the right to burn.
-Those are lies. Ben Franklin did not do that.
After the last of your generation dies, so will your words... your memories...
and the burden of your fake past.
What is called a reason for living is also an excellent reason for dying.
A revolution is not a dinner party.
Books are here to remind us what fools we can be.
Do your duty. Stay vivid on the 9 and report all suspicious activity.
Consequences of silence will be severe! Help yourselves and your neighbors by telling us what you know! Not tomorrow, not the next day, but now!
Is it possible to be perfectly candid with oneself and not be afraid... of the whole truth?
All of humanity's chaotic knowledge will burst forth like mosquitoes spreading malaria... and the dark countries will take over. Even the greatest army of Firemen will seem like spitting babies before the Omnis. And everything our parents, our grandparents, sacrificed in the Second
Civil War will be lost.
No wonder you've been so eloquent lately. But you're still the same dog I raised, just barking at someone else's command.
You wanted to fly near the sun. You burn your damn wings off and you wonder why.
Did you think that one tiny crime... would be wiped out by thousands of good deeds? That there would be no punishment? A little knowledge is a dangerous thing. You read a few lines, and you're ready to blow up the world, chop heads off, destroy authority.
"To go wrong in one's own way is better than to go right in someone else's.
Taking a new step, uttering a new word... is what people fear the most."
All those silly words, those false promises, the timeworn philosophies. It's like chain-smoking, chapter by chapter.
So, as long as you distract your mind from its dreams, it will not know them
for what they are. You will always be taken in by the appearance of things,
because you will not have grasped their true nature.
Befitting ending quote from Whitman's poem "Song of Myself" with reference to his understanding of death:
"I bequeath myself to the dirt
to grow from the grass I love.
If you want me again,
look for me under your boot soles.
You will hardly know who I am
or what I mean,
but I shall be good help
to you nevertheless,
and filter and fiber your blood.
Failing to fetch me at first,
Missing me one place,
I stop somewhere,
waiting for you."
Ah. See? "Huck Finn"... and his "nigger" friend. The whites knew that you blacks were offended, so what did we do? We burned it. Oh. And then "Native Son" came along, and the whites didn't appreciate that one all that much, so they burned it, too.
-Why didn't they like it?
Henry Miller, Hemingway. The feminists don't approve, so into the flames they go. You see, we are not born equal, Guy, so we must be made equal by the fire, and then... we can be happy. So, we burn.
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