Books bombarded Montag's shoulders, his arms, his upturned face. A book landed, almost obediently, like a white pigeon, in his hands, wings fluttering. In the dim wavering light a page hung open and it was like a nowy feather, the words delicately painted thereon. In all the rush and fervor, Montag had only an instant to read a line, but it blazed as if stamped there with fiery steel. (Ray Bradbury, 1953)
Nessun commento:
Posta un commento