Fahrenheit 451 is written so poetically, I was compelled to read it out loud (which I did for the first 20 pages, until my partner got tired of hearing me talking even more than usual). Ray Bradbury is a passionate writer; you can tell by the way his sentences flow so beautifully that he throws himself into each one of them. I’m always amazed to find such romance coming from a male author. The story was short, yet gripping from start to finish. It’s a utopian story about the future of our society, where we’ve become so overstimulated it becomes a crime to read, because books incite thought in our already overstuffed brains. In the Afterword Bradbury gives examples of how this is happening today, with censorship and political correctness killing our imaginations.
Here’s a brief excerpt, so you can see the beauty of Bradbury’s style:
How rarely did other people’s faces take of you and throw back to you own expression, your own innermost trembling thought? What incredible power of identification the girl had; she was like the eager watcher of a marionette show, anticipating each flicker of an eyelid, each gesture of his hand, each flick of a finger, the moment before it began. How long had they walked together? Three minutes? Five? Yet how large that time seemed now. How immense a figure she was on the stage before him; what a shadow she threw on the wall with her slender body! He felt that if his eye itched, she might blink, and if the muscles of his jaw stretched imperceptibly, she would yawn long before he would.
Once I’m done with this list, I’ll definitely be coming back to Bradbury, but for now I’m moving on to Great Expectations.