Clarisse McClellan
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Clarisse McClellan
"...The rain was thinning away and the girl was walking in the center of the sidewalk with her head up and the few drops falling on her face. She smiled when she saw Montag.
'Hello!'
He said hello and then said,'What are you up to now?'
'I'm still crazy. The rain feels good. I love to walk in it.'
'I don't think I'd like that,' he said.
'You might if you tried.'
'I never have.'
She licked her lips. 'Rain even tastes good.'
'What do you do, go around trying everything once?' he asked.
'Sometimes twice,' she looked at something in her hand.
'What've you got there?' he said.
'I guess it's the last of the dandelions this year. I didn't think I'd find one on the lawn this late. Have you ever heard of rubbing it under your chin? Look.'
She touched her chin with the flower, laughing.
'Why?'
'If it rubs off, it means I'm in love. Has it?'
He could hardly doa nything else but look.
'Well?' she said.
'You're yellow under there.'
'Fine! Let's try you now.'
'It won't work for me.'
'Here.' Before he could move she had put the dandelion under his chin. He drew back and she laughed. 'Hold still!'
She peered under his chin and frowned.
'Well?'' she said.
'What a shame,' she said. 'You're not in love with anyone.'
'Yes, I am!'
'It doesn't show.'
'I am, very much in love!' He tried to conjure up a face to fit the words, but there was no face...
*
He felt at ease and comfortable. 'Why aren't you in school?' I see you every day wandering around.'
'Oh. they don't miss me,' she said. ' I'm antisocial, they say. I don't mix. It's so strange. I'm very social indeed. It all depend on what you mean by social doesn't it? Social to me means talking to you about things like this.' She rattled some chestnuts that had fallen off the tree in the front yard.' Or talking about how strange the world is. Being with people is nice. But I don't think it's social to get a bunch of people together and then not let them talk, do you? An hour of TV class, an hour of basketball or baseball or running, another hour of transcription history or painting pictures, and more sports, but do you know, we never ask questions, or at least most don't; they just run run the answers to you, bing, bing, bing, and us sitting there for four moure hours of film teacher. That's not social to me at all. It's a lot of funnels and a lot of water poured down the sprout and out the bottom, and them telling us that it is wine when it's not...'
*
' I guess I'm everything they say i am, all right. I haven't any friends. That's supposed to prove I'm abnormal...'
*
'Bet I know something else you don't. There's dew on the grass in the morning.'
He suddenly couldn't remember if he had known this or not, and it made him quite irritable.
'And if you look' - she nodded at the sky - 'there's a man in the moon.'
He hadn't looked for a long time.
They walked the rest of the way in silence, hers thoughtful, his a kind of clenching and uncomfortable silence in which he shot her accusing glances. When they reached her house all its lights were blazing.
'What's going on?' Montag had rarly seen that many house lights.
'Oh, just my mother and father and uncle sitting around, talking. It's like being a pedestrian, only rarer. My uncle was arrested another time - did I tell you? - for being a pedestrian. Oh, we're most peculiar.'
'But what do you talk about?'
She laughed at this. 'Good night!' She started up her walk. Then she seemed to remember something, and came back to look at him with wonder and curiosity. 'Are you happy?' she said.
'Am I what?' he cried.
'But she was goine - running in the moonlight. Her front door shut gently.
*
Five, six, seven days.
And then, Clarisse was gone. He did not know what there was about the afternoon, but it was not seeing her somewhere in the world. The lawn was empty, the trees empty, the street empty, and while at first he did not even know he missed her or was even looking for her, the fact was that by the time he reached the subway, there were vague stirrings of dis-ease in him. Something was the matter, his routine had been disturbed. A simple routine, true, established in a short few days, and yet? ... He almost turned back to make the walk again, to give her time to appear. He was certain if he tried the same route, everything would work out fine. But it was late, and the arrival of his train put a stop to his plan..."
---From Part One: The Hearth and the Salamander, of Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury
"...The rain was thinning away and the girl was walking in the center of the sidewalk with her head up and the few drops falling on her face. She smiled when she saw Montag.
'Hello!'
He said hello and then said,'What are you up to now?'
'I'm still crazy. The rain feels good. I love to walk in it.'
'I don't think I'd like that,' he said.
'You might if you tried.'
'I never have.'
She licked her lips. 'Rain even tastes good.'
'What do you do, go around trying everything once?' he asked.
'Sometimes twice,' she looked at something in her hand.
'What've you got there?' he said.
'I guess it's the last of the dandelions this year. I didn't think I'd find one on the lawn this late. Have you ever heard of rubbing it under your chin? Look.'
She touched her chin with the flower, laughing.
'Why?'
'If it rubs off, it means I'm in love. Has it?'
He could hardly doa nything else but look.
'Well?' she said.
'You're yellow under there.'
'Fine! Let's try you now.'
'It won't work for me.'
'Here.' Before he could move she had put the dandelion under his chin. He drew back and she laughed. 'Hold still!'
She peered under his chin and frowned.
'Well?'' she said.
'What a shame,' she said. 'You're not in love with anyone.'
'Yes, I am!'
'It doesn't show.'
'I am, very much in love!' He tried to conjure up a face to fit the words, but there was no face...
*
He felt at ease and comfortable. 'Why aren't you in school?' I see you every day wandering around.'
'Oh. they don't miss me,' she said. ' I'm antisocial, they say. I don't mix. It's so strange. I'm very social indeed. It all depend on what you mean by social doesn't it? Social to me means talking to you about things like this.' She rattled some chestnuts that had fallen off the tree in the front yard.' Or talking about how strange the world is. Being with people is nice. But I don't think it's social to get a bunch of people together and then not let them talk, do you? An hour of TV class, an hour of basketball or baseball or running, another hour of transcription history or painting pictures, and more sports, but do you know, we never ask questions, or at least most don't; they just run run the answers to you, bing, bing, bing, and us sitting there for four moure hours of film teacher. That's not social to me at all. It's a lot of funnels and a lot of water poured down the sprout and out the bottom, and them telling us that it is wine when it's not...'
*
' I guess I'm everything they say i am, all right. I haven't any friends. That's supposed to prove I'm abnormal...'
*
'Bet I know something else you don't. There's dew on the grass in the morning.'
He suddenly couldn't remember if he had known this or not, and it made him quite irritable.
'And if you look' - she nodded at the sky - 'there's a man in the moon.'
He hadn't looked for a long time.
They walked the rest of the way in silence, hers thoughtful, his a kind of clenching and uncomfortable silence in which he shot her accusing glances. When they reached her house all its lights were blazing.
'What's going on?' Montag had rarly seen that many house lights.
'Oh, just my mother and father and uncle sitting around, talking. It's like being a pedestrian, only rarer. My uncle was arrested another time - did I tell you? - for being a pedestrian. Oh, we're most peculiar.'
'But what do you talk about?'
She laughed at this. 'Good night!' She started up her walk. Then she seemed to remember something, and came back to look at him with wonder and curiosity. 'Are you happy?' she said.
'Am I what?' he cried.
'But she was goine - running in the moonlight. Her front door shut gently.
*
Five, six, seven days.
And then, Clarisse was gone. He did not know what there was about the afternoon, but it was not seeing her somewhere in the world. The lawn was empty, the trees empty, the street empty, and while at first he did not even know he missed her or was even looking for her, the fact was that by the time he reached the subway, there were vague stirrings of dis-ease in him. Something was the matter, his routine had been disturbed. A simple routine, true, established in a short few days, and yet? ... He almost turned back to make the walk again, to give her time to appear. He was certain if he tried the same route, everything would work out fine. But it was late, and the arrival of his train put a stop to his plan..."
---From Part One: The Hearth and the Salamander, of Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury
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on Thursday, November 02, 2006 at 9:00 PM.
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12:34 PM
What page is this from?
Great passage.