Harris in Youngstown."
"Mr. Montag." The man grasped Montag's shoulder firmly. "Walk slowly, be careful, take your health seriously. If anything should happen to Harris, you are the Book of Job. Do you see how important you are?"
"But I've forgotten it!"
"Nonsense, nothing is ever forgotten. Mislaid, perhaps, but not forgotten. We have ways, several new methods of hypnosis, to shake down the clinkers there. You'll remember, don't fear."
"I've been trying to remember."
"Don't try. Relax. It'll come when we need it. Some people are quick studies but don't know it. Some of God's simplest creatures have the ability called eidetic or photographic memory, the ability to memorize entire pages of print at a glance. It has nothing to do with I.Q. No offense, Montag. It varies. Would you like, one day, to read Plato's Republic?"
"Of course."
Granger nodded to a man who had been sitting to one side.
"Mr. Plato, if you please."
THE man began to talk. He looked at Montag idly, his hands filling a corncob pipe, unaware of the words tumbling from his lips. He talked for two minutes without a pause or stumble.
Granger made the smallest move of his fingers. The man cut off.
"Perfect word-for-word memory, every word important, every word Plato's," said Granger.
"And," said the man who was Plato, "I don't understand a damned word of it. I just say it. It's up to you to understand."
"Don't you understand any of it?" asked Montag.
"None of it. But I can't get it out. Once it's in, it's like solidified glue in a bottle, there for good. Mr. Granger says it's important. That's good enough for me."
"We're old friends," said Granger. "We hadn't seen each other since we were boys. We met a few years ago on that track, somewhere between here and Seattle, walking, me running away from firemen, he running from cities."
"Never liked cities," said the one who was Plato. "Always felt that cities owned men, that was all, and used men to keep themselves going, to keep machines oiled and dusted. So I got out. And then I met Granger and he found out that I had this eidetic memory, as he calls it, and he gave me a book to read and then we burned the book ourselves so we wouldn't be caught with it. And now I'm Plato; that's what I am."
"He is also Socrates." The man nodded. "And Schopenhauer." Another nod. "And John Dewey."
"All that in one bottle. You wouldn't think there was room. But I can open my head like a concertina and play it. There's plenty of room if you don't try to think about what you've memorized. It's when you start thinking that all of a sudden it's crowded. I don't think about anything except eating, sleeping, and traveling. I let you people do the thinking when you hear what I recite. Oh, there's plenty of room, believe me."
"So here we are, Mr. Montag. Mr. Simmons is really Mr. John Donne and Mr. Charles Darwin and Mr. Aristophanes. These other gentlemen are Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. And I am Ruth."
Everyone laughed quietly.
"You see, we are not without humor in this melancholy age. I'm also bits and pieces, Mr. Montag, snatches of Byron and Shelley and Shaw and Washington Irving and Shakespeare. I'm one of those kaleidoscopes. Hold me up to the sun, give a shake, watch the patterns. And you are Mr. Job, and in half an hour or less, a war will begin.
While those people in that anthill across the river have been busy chasing Montag, as if he were the cause of all their nervous anxiety and frustration, the war has been getting under way. By this time tomorrow the world will belong to the little green towns and the rusted rail-road tracks and the men walking on them; that's us. The cities will be soot and baking powder."
THE t-v rang a bell. Granger switched it on. "Final negotiations are arranged for a conference today with the enemy government —" Granger snapped it off. "Well, what do you think, Montag?"
"I think I was
"Mr. Montag." The man grasped Montag's shoulder firmly. "Walk slowly, be careful, take your health seriously. If anything should happen to Harris, you are the Book of Job. Do you see how important you are?"
"But I've forgotten it!"
"Nonsense, nothing is ever forgotten. Mislaid, perhaps, but not forgotten. We have ways, several new methods of hypnosis, to shake down the clinkers there. You'll remember, don't fear."
"I've been trying to remember."
"Don't try. Relax. It'll come when we need it. Some people are quick studies but don't know it. Some of God's simplest creatures have the ability called eidetic or photographic memory, the ability to memorize entire pages of print at a glance. It has nothing to do with I.Q. No offense, Montag. It varies. Would you like, one day, to read Plato's Republic?"
"Of course."
Granger nodded to a man who had been sitting to one side.
"Mr. Plato, if you please."
THE man began to talk. He looked at Montag idly, his hands filling a corncob pipe, unaware of the words tumbling from his lips. He talked for two minutes without a pause or stumble.
Granger made the smallest move of his fingers. The man cut off.
"Perfect word-for-word memory, every word important, every word Plato's," said Granger.
"And," said the man who was Plato, "I don't understand a damned word of it. I just say it. It's up to you to understand."
"Don't you understand any of it?" asked Montag.
"None of it. But I can't get it out. Once it's in, it's like solidified glue in a bottle, there for good. Mr. Granger says it's important. That's good enough for me."
"We're old friends," said Granger. "We hadn't seen each other since we were boys. We met a few years ago on that track, somewhere between here and Seattle, walking, me running away from firemen, he running from cities."
"Never liked cities," said the one who was Plato. "Always felt that cities owned men, that was all, and used men to keep themselves going, to keep machines oiled and dusted. So I got out. And then I met Granger and he found out that I had this eidetic memory, as he calls it, and he gave me a book to read and then we burned the book ourselves so we wouldn't be caught with it. And now I'm Plato; that's what I am."
"He is also Socrates." The man nodded. "And Schopenhauer." Another nod. "And John Dewey."
"All that in one bottle. You wouldn't think there was room. But I can open my head like a concertina and play it. There's plenty of room if you don't try to think about what you've memorized. It's when you start thinking that all of a sudden it's crowded. I don't think about anything except eating, sleeping, and traveling. I let you people do the thinking when you hear what I recite. Oh, there's plenty of room, believe me."
"So here we are, Mr. Montag. Mr. Simmons is really Mr. John Donne and Mr. Charles Darwin and Mr. Aristophanes. These other gentlemen are Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. And I am Ruth."
Everyone laughed quietly.
"You see, we are not without humor in this melancholy age. I'm also bits and pieces, Mr. Montag, snatches of Byron and Shelley and Shaw and Washington Irving and Shakespeare. I'm one of those kaleidoscopes. Hold me up to the sun, give a shake, watch the patterns. And you are Mr. Job, and in half an hour or less, a war will begin.
While those people in that anthill across the river have been busy chasing Montag, as if he were the cause of all their nervous anxiety and frustration, the war has been getting under way. By this time tomorrow the world will belong to the little green towns and the rusted rail-road tracks and the men walking on them; that's us. The cities will be soot and baking powder."
THE t-v rang a bell. Granger switched it on. "Final negotiations are arranged for a conference today with the enemy government —" Granger snapped it off. "Well, what do you think, Montag?"
"I think I was
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