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Fahrenheit 451

A Novel

Ray Bradbury

(6)
Buch (Taschenbuch, Englisch)
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Beschreibung

Ray Bradbury's internationally acclaimed novel Fahrenheit 451 is a masterwork of twentieth-century literature set in a bleak, dystopian future.

Ray Bradbury's internationally acclaimed novel Fahrenheit 451 is a masterwork of twentieth-century literature set in a bleak, dystopian future.

Guy Montag is a fireman. In his world, where television rules and literature is on the brink of extinction, firemen start fires rather than put them out. His job is to destroy the most illegal of commodities, the printed book, along with the houses in which they are hidden.

Montag never questions the destruction and ruin his actions produce, returning each day to his bland life and wife, Mildred, who spends all day with her television "family." But then he meets an eccentric young neighbor, Clarisse, who introduces him to a past where people didn't live in fear and to a present where one sees the world through the ideas in books instead of the mindless chatter of television.

When Mildred attempts suicide and Clarisse suddenly disappears, Montag begins to question everything he has ever known. He starts hiding books in his home, and when his pilfering is discovered, the fireman has to run for his life.

"Frightening in its implications . . . Mr. Bradbury's account of this insane world, which bears many alarming resemblances to our own, is fascinating." -The New York Times

Produktdetails

Einband Taschenbuch
Seitenzahl 176
Erscheinungsdatum 01.05.2012
Sprache Englisch
ISBN 978-1-4516-9031-6
Verlag Simon + Schuster
Maße (L/B/H) 17/10.3/1.7 cm
Gewicht 86 g
Verkaufsrang 777

Kundenbewertungen

Durchschnitt
6 Bewertungen
Übersicht
5
1
0
0
0

Tolles Buch
von einer Kundin/einem Kunden aus St. Gallen am 05.01.2021
Bewertet: Einband: Taschenbuch

Super Ausgabe, schönes Paperback, fühlt sich gut in der Hand an

Bradburys bestes Werk?
von Robert K. am 26.12.2020
Bewertet: Einband: Taschenbuch

Ich bin ein großer Fan von Bradburys Werken und habe an allen Büchern bisher große Freude gefunden. Fahrenheit sticht für mich persönlich dennoch hervor. Bradbury hat ein magisches Talent, während er Wörter schreibt, lese ich Bilder. Absolute Empfehlung!

Pretty brilliant
von einer Kundin/einem Kunden am 20.04.2020
Bewertet: Einband: Taschenbuch

Out of the three most influential dystopias (at least before "The Handmaid's Tale") I had only ever read "Brave New World". "1984" is still on the agenda, but at least I now know "Fahrenheit 451", Ray Bradbury's brilliant novel about a fireman who stops believing in a society that burns books in order for no one to start origina... Out of the three most influential dystopias (at least before "The Handmaid's Tale") I had only ever read "Brave New World". "1984" is still on the agenda, but at least I now know "Fahrenheit 451", Ray Bradbury's brilliant novel about a fireman who stops believing in a society that burns books in order for no one to start original thoughts. There are several things to praise here. First of all the whole concept of turning fire fighters on their head is so smart because it seems so easy. Also Bradbury does not go for wild surprises. Yes, some moments are shocking, but they always seem to occur quite logically. The plot definitely has a lot of ease to it. That doesn't stop Bradbury from finding some strong poetry in his crazy world. And in the end, even though the society he presents is rotten, Bradbury gifts us with a glimmer of optimism - maybe that is naive, but still believing that not all is lost forever, is just a sentiment that resonates with me. Very probably I actually like this one better than "Brave New World" - maybe because it seems so much more probable.

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  • Fahrenheit 451 one
    The Hearth and the Salamander

    It was a pleasure to burn.

    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.

    º º º

    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