Well, now you did it. Old Montag wanted to fly near the sun and now that he's burnt his damn wings, he wonders why. Didn't I hint enough when I sent the hound around your place
Oh,no! You weren't fooled by that little idiot's routine, now were you? Flowers, butterflies, leaves, sunsets, oh, hell! It's all in her file. I'll be damned. I've hit the bull's-eye. Look at the sick look on your face. What trash. What good did she ever do with all that?
What is there about fire that's so lovely? No matter what age we are, what draws us to it? It's perpetual motion; the thing man wanted to invent but never did. I want you to do this job all by your lonesome, Montag. Not with kerosene and a match, but piecework, with a flamethrower. Your house, your clean up