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Fahrenheit 451 Paperback – August 12, 1987
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Guy Montag was a fireman whose job it was to start fires...
The system was simple. Everyone understood it. Books were for burning ... along with the houses in which they were hidden.
Guy Montag enjoyed his job. He had been a fireman for ten years, and he had never questioned the pleasure of the midnight runs nor the joy of watching pages consumed by flames... never questioned anything until he met a seventeen-year-old girl who told him of a past when people were not afraid.
Then he met a professor who told him of a future in which people could think... and Guy Montag suddenly realized what he had to do!
- Print length179 pages
- LanguageEnglish
- Lexile measure890L
- Dimensions4.25 x 0.75 x 7 inches
- PublisherDel Rey
- Publication dateAugust 12, 1987
- ISBN-109780345342966
- ISBN-13978-0345342966
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Amazon editors say...

A dystopian classic about the dangers of banning books, which ironically is at the top of many banned-book lists.
Chris Schluep, Amazon Editor
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We stand against the small tide of those who want to make everyone unhappy with conflicting theory and thought.9,086 Kindle readers highlighted this
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“That’s the good part of dying; when you’ve nothing to lose, you run any risk you want.”6,140 Kindle readers highlighted this
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“Those who don’t build must burn. It’s as old as history and juvenile delinquents.”5,023 Kindle readers highlighted this
Editorial Reviews
From the Publisher
There are some books that no matter how long ago you've read them, details
from the story stick in your mind. Farenheit 451 was like that for me. I
was 15 when I first checked it out from the high school library. I hadn't
really gotten very far into the book when a cute guy noticed I was carrying
it around school.
"Good book," he commented.
"Yeah, I'm still reading it," I answered. Wow, I thought, approval from an
older guy. That gave me the incentive to finish what turned out to be one
of the most important sf novels ever written.
It's been more than 20 years since I've spoken to but I'll always feel
grateful to him whenever I hear about bookburnings. His tiny bit of
encouragement introduced me to one of the genre's finest writers.
--Amy Stout, Consulting Editor
From the Inside Flap
About the Author
He lives in Los Angeles.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
It was a special pleasure to see things eaten, to see things blackened and changed. With the brass nozzle in his fists, with this great python spitting its venomous kerosene upon the world, the blood pounded in his head, and his hands were the hands of some amazing conductor playing all the symphonies of blazing and burning to bring down the tatters and charcoal ruins of history. With his symbolic helmet numbered 451 on his stolid head, and his eyes all orange flame with the thought of what came next, he flicked the igniter and the house jumped up in a gorging fire that burned the evening sky red and yellow and black. He strode in a swarm of fireflies. He wanted above all, like the old joke, to shove a marshmallow on a stick in the furnace, while the flapping pigeon-winged books died on the porch and lawn of the house. While the books went up in sparkling whirls and blew away on a wind turned dark with burning.
Montag grinned the fierce grin of all men singed and driven back by flame.
He knew that when he returned to the firehouse, he might wink at himself, a minstrel man, burnt-corked, in the mirror. Later, going to sleep, he would feel the fiery smile still gripped by his face muscles, in the dark. It never went away, that smile, it never ever went away, as long as he remembered.
He hung up his black beetle-colored helmet and shined it; he hung his flameproof jacket neatly; he showered luxuriously, and then, whistling, hands in pockets, walked across the upper floor of the fire station and fell down the hole. At the last moment, when disaster seemed positive, he pulled his hands from his pockets and broke his fall by grasping the golden pole. He slid to a squeaking halt, the heels one inch from the concrete floor downstairs.
He walked out of the fire station and along the midnight street toward the subway where the silent air-propelled train slid soundlessly down its lubricated flue in the earth and let him out with a great puff of warm air onto the cream-tiled escalator rising to the suburb.
Whistling, he let the escalator waft him into the still night air. He walked toward the corner, thinking little at all about nothing in particular. Before he reached the corner, however, he slowed as if a wind had sprung up from nowhere, as if someone had called his name.
The last few nights he had had the most uncertain feelings about the sidewalk just around the corner here, moving in the starlight toward his house. He had felt that a moment prior to his making the turn, someone had been there. The air seemed charged with a special calm as if someone had waited there, quietly, and only a moment before he came, simply turned to a shadow and let him through. Perhaps his nose detected a faint perfume, perhaps the skin on the backs of his hands, on his face, felt the temperature rise at this one spot where a person’s standing might raise the immediate atmosphere ten degrees for an instant. There was no understanding it. Each time he made the turn, he saw only the white, unused, buckling sidewalk, with perhaps, on one night, something vanishing swiftly across a lawn before he could focus his eyes or speak.
But now tonight, he slowed almost to a stop. His inner mind, reaching out to turn the corner for him, had heard the faintest whisper. Breathing? Or was the atmosphere compressed merely by someone standing very quietly there, waiting?
He turned the corner.
The autumn leaves blew over the moonlit pavement in such a way as to make the girl who was moving there seem fixed to a sliding walk, letting the motion of the wind and the leaves carry her forward. Her head was half bent to watch her shoes stir the circling leaves. Her face was slender and milk-white, and in it was a kind of gentle hunger that touched over everything with tireless curiosity. It was a look, almost, of pale surprise; the dark eyes were so fixed to the world that no move escaped them. Her dress was white and it whispered. He almost thought he heard the motion of her hands as she walked, and the infinitely small sound now, the white stir of her face turning when she discovered she was a moment away from a man who stood in the middle of the pavement waiting.
The trees overhead made a great sound of letting down their dry rain. The girl stopped and looked as if she might pull back in surprise, but instead stood regarding Montag with eyes so dark and shining and alive that he felt he had said something quite wonderful. But he knew his mouth had only moved to say hello, and then when she seemed hypnotized by the salamander on his arm and the phoenix disc on his chest, he spoke again.
“Of course,” he said, “you’re our new neighbor, aren’t you?”
“And you must be”—she raised her eyes from his professional symbols “—the fireman.” Her voice trailed off.
“How oddly you say that.”
“I’d—I’d have known it with my eyes shut,” she said, slowly.
“What—the smell of kerosene? My wife always complains,” he laughed. “You never wash it off completely.”
“No, you don’t,” she said, in awe.
He felt she was walking in a circle about him, turning him end for end, shaking him quietly, and emptying his pockets, without once moving herself.
“Kerosene,” he said, because the silence had lengthened, “is nothing but perfume to me.”
“Does it seem like that, really?”
“Of course. Why not?”
She gave herself time to think of it. “I don’t know.” She turned to face the sidewalk going toward their homes. “Do you mind if I walk back with you? I’m Clarisse McClellan.”
“Clarisse. Guy Montag. Come along. What are you doing out so late wandering around? How old are you?”
They walked in the warm-cool blowing night on the silvered pavement and there was the faintest breath of fresh apricots and strawberries in the air, and he looked around and realized this was quite impossible, so late in the year.
There was only the girl walking with him now, her face bright as snow in the moonlight, and he knew she was working his questions around, seeking the best answers she could possibly give.
“Well,” she said, “I’m seventeen and I’m crazy. My uncle says the two always go together. When people ask your age, he said, always say seventeen and insane. Isn’t this a nice time of night to walk? I like to smell things and look at things, and sometimes stay up all night, walking, and watch the sun rise.”
They walked on again in silence and finally she said, thoughtfully, “You know, I’m not afraid of you at all.”
He was surprised. “Why should you be?”
“So many people are. Afraid of firemen, I mean. But you’re just a man, after all . . .”
He saw himself in her eyes, suspended in two shining drops of bright water, himself dark and tiny, in fine detail, the lines about his mouth, everything there, as if her eyes were two miraculous bits of violet amber that might capture and hold him intact. Her face, turned to him now, was fragile milk crystal with a soft and constant light in it. It was not the hysterical light of electricity but—what? But the strangely comfortable and rare and gently flattering light of the candle. One time, as a child, in a power failure, his mother had found and lit a last candle and there had been a brief hour of rediscovery, of such illumination that space lost its vast dimensions and grew comfortably around them, and they, mother and son, alone, transformed, hoping that the power might not come on again too soon . . .
And then Clarisse McClellan said:
“Do you mind if I ask? How long’ve you worked at being a fireman?”
“Since I was twenty, ten years ago.”
“Do you ever read any of the books you burn?”
He laughed. “That’s against the law!”
“Oh. Of course.”
“It’s fine work. Monday burn Millay, Wednesday Whitman, Friday Faulkner, burn ’em to ashes, then burn the ashes. That’s our official slogan.”
They walked still farther and the girl said, “Is it true that long ago firemen put fires out instead of going to start them?”
“No. Houses have always been fireproof, take my word for it.”
“Strange. I heard once that a long time ago houses used to burn by accident and they needed firemen to stop the flames.”
He laughed.
She glanced quickly over. “Why are you laughing?”
“I don’t know.” He started to laugh again and stopped. “Why?”
“You laugh when I haven’t been funny and you answer right off. You never stop to think what I’ve asked you.”
He stopped walking. “You are an odd one,” he said, looking at her. “Haven’t you any respect?”
“I don’t mean to be insulting. It’s just I love to watch people too much, I guess.”
“Well, doesn’t this mean anything to you?” He tapped the numerals 451 stitched on his char-colored sleeve.
“Yes,” she whispered. She increased her pace. “Have you ever watched the jet cars racing on the boulevards down that way?”
“You’re changing the subject!”
“I sometimes think drivers don’t know what grass is, or flowers, because they never see them slowly,” she said. “If you showed a driver a green blur, Oh yes! he’d say, that’s grass! A pink blur! That’s a rose garden! White blurs are houses. Brown blurs are cows. My uncle drove slowly on a highway once. He drove forty miles an hour and they jailed him for two days. Isn’t that funny, and sad, too?”
Product details
- ASIN : 0345342968
- Publisher : Del Rey (August 12, 1987)
- Language : English
- Paperback : 179 pages
- ISBN-10 : 9780345342966
- ISBN-13 : 978-0345342966
- Reading age : 15+ years, from customers
- Lexile measure : 890L
- Item Weight : 4 ounces
- Dimensions : 4.25 x 0.75 x 7 inches
- Best Sellers Rank: #771,436 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- #15,750 in Science Fiction Adventures
- #18,758 in Classic Literature & Fiction
- #37,744 in Literary Fiction (Books)
- Customer Reviews:
About the author

In a career spanning more than seventy years, Ray Bradbury, who died on June 5, 2012, at the age of 91, inspired generations of readers to dream, think, and create. A prolific author of hundreds of short stories and close to fifty books, as well as numerous poems, essays, operas, plays, teleplays, and screenplays, Bradbury was one of the most celebrated writers of our time. His groundbreaking works include Fahrenheit 451, The Martian Chronicles, The Illustrated Man, Dandelion Wine, and Something Wicked This Way Comes. He wrote the screen play for John Huston's classic film adaptation of Moby Dick, and was nominated for an Academy Award. He adapted sixty-five of his stories for television's The Ray Bradbury Theater, and won an Emmy for his teleplay of The Halloween Tree. He was the recipient of the 2000 National Book Foundation Medal for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters, the 2004 National Medal of Arts, and the 2007 Pulitzer Prize Special Citation, among many honors.
Throughout his life, Bradbury liked to recount the story of meeting a carnival magician, Mr. Electrico, in 1932. At the end of his performance Electrico reached out to the twelve-year-old Bradbury, touched the boy with his sword, and commanded, "Live forever!" Bradbury later said, "I decided that was the greatest idea I had ever heard. I started writing every day. I never stopped."
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This is one of the most unique dystopian novels I have read and is right up there with H.G. Wells with its incredible philosophical insight into human society, what makes us tick individually and as a group and how it could all go incredibly wrong if mankind, as a group, makes incorrect choices along the pathway leading into the future. What makes this book incredibly scary is how horribly possible it all is and how awful the black cloud of illiteracy and ignorance is and how it limits people's choices and abilities to progress and grow. All this being said, however, this book does end on an optimistic and hopeful note which is invigorating and uplifting, especially given the momentous issues that are currently staring mankind in the face like climate crisis and the fourth industrial revolution.
Guy Montag is a fireman, whose job involves the destruction of books and the belongings and homes of people who go against the law of the nation and keep and read books. The reader is introduced to Guy in a happy state of enjoyment over his current burning and you get the impression that he is happy and fulfilled in his life and his work.
Coming out of the train station at the end of his work shift, Guy meets Clarice, an unusual young woman who is a thinker. The reader quickly realises that she is incredibly unique in this time of book burning and technological dominance over creativity, thinking and, in essence, the spirit of man. Guy listens to what Clarice has to say, nothing specific, but a series of innocent ramblings with enough substance to make him think. She ends the evening by asking him if he is happy. Is he happy? As this leading question and an immediate and alarming set of circumstances in his home life, cause Guy Montag to consider the meaning of his whole life and the lives of those around him, he realises that he is not happy in his lifestyle of forced gaiety and non-conflict. He also comes to see that no-one else around him is happy either and that their lifestyles are meaningless and also emotionless.
The beauty of this story is in it unerring ability to make the reader question his/her existence and the meaning of life. In the same manner as HG Wells depicted the Eloi, in his book The Time Machine, as being human creatures who have evolved into childlike and uninspired creature through living a Utopian type existence where there every need is met and there exists no conflict or hardship or anything else to spark thinking, innovation and progress. I saw parallels in the thinking process between HG Wells and Ray Bradbury and the recognition that a perfect Utopian environment would ultimately lead to the downfall of mankind as it would strip away our survival skills and instincts and we would not be able to cope with the resurgence of conflict and evil which is always bound to reappear in life. Perfection can only ever be a thin veneer over the underlying issues inherent in societies and human interaction which each other.
This is an exceptional book and an inspired story.
This story is set in the future, where the government has forbid literature in hopes to repress everyone’s thoughts and knowledge. Technology is advancing quickly and everyone needs to have the latest; entire walls made of one television screen. Hours upon hours are spent with the television “families.” The few who have any sense are seen as odd and deemed as outcasts.
Montag begins as a typical fireman. He just follows the rules and goes on with his life, unmindful of what is happening in the world. Much like everyone else in the society. As the story progresses, he becomes more of a risk-taker. He starts to act for himself instead of for the good of society. Montag’s wife, Mildred, on the other hand, stays consistent with her characteristics throughout the story. She is more of a selfish, person who has been brainwashed by television. Mildred is an unpredictable character who seems to be in high spirits, but she tries to commit suicide, by eating too many sleeping pills.
From the beginning of the story, you can tell that something is different in their society, as firemen burn down houses rather than put out fires. A significant event occurs right off the bat when Montag meets Clarisse, a young insightful girl who opens Montag’s eyes to the past when books were legal and people didn’t spend all of their time in front of the television screen. Clarisse meets Montag everyday in the same spot, on his way to and from work. They converse about the past and to Montag, she seems so wise and he immediately befriends her. After awhile Montag’s life begins to change, he doesn’t seem to know his wife anymore and he begins to doubt his all his previous knowledge. Pretty soon, Montag and Clarisse’s meetings become routine. But suddenly Clarisse wasn’t there to greet him on his way home anymore. She had disappeared and her whole family was gone. Montag and his wife are growing further and further apart. After the unexpected disappearance of Clarisse, Montag begins hiding books in his own home, hoping that they will help him to know what to do next.
After a session with the fire captain, Beatty, Montag realizes why books were forbidden, simply to ensure that no one would be smarter than anyone else. The government anticipated that in banning books, it would repress everyone’s thoughts and ideas, so no one would be too smart. And they hoped to let technology pretty much brainwash people into believing that literature is not worth their time. So, by letting technology be dominant over literature, one will lose their knowledge. And the government’s plan worked, they’ve created dumbed-down, technologically crazed clones.
Montag refused to go to work for quite some time, but upon returning he made a new ally. Faber, a wise, old criminal, and Montag were fed up with the laws against books. The allies wanted to form a plan to rebel and legalize books again. They intended on planting books in firemen’s’ houses and then call the alarm. Montag knew their plan was risky and that if caught; he would surely go to prison and maybe be put to death. Before he and Faber even began to fulfill their plan, they encountered an unforeseen delay. While Montag was at work one day, the firemen got a call for a fire, nothing out of the unusual, but when they arrived at the house it was Montag’s own house. Mildred had turned him in. Because Montag was now a criminal, he has to go on the run. Meanwhile, war has broken out in the community. I’ll let you see for yourself how it ends.
This book, because of the extensive detail, can be a little confusing at times. I would recommend it for older people. But, it’s very well written and I enjoyed reading it. It leaves you fearing a world with evolving technology and no literature. I believe that anyone looking for a fiction, dystopian novel, would take pleasure in reading this book as I did.



















