Fahrenheit 451 Faber Quotes

You're a hopeless romantic," said Faber. "It would be funny if it were not serious. It's not books you need, it's some of the things that once were in books. The same things could be in the 'parlor families' today. The same infinite detail and awareness could be projected through the radios, and televisors, but are not. No,no it's not books at all you're looking for! Take it where you can find it, in old phonograph records, old motion pictures, and in old friends; look for it in nature and look for it in yourself. Books were only one type or receptacle where we stored a lot of things we were afraid we might forget. There is nothing magical in them at all. The magic is only in what books say, how they stitched the patches of the universe together into one garment for us. Of course you couldn't know this, of course you still can't understand what I mean when i say all this. You are intuitively right, that's what counts.

I don't talk things, sir,' said Faber. 'I talk the meaning of things. I sit here and know I'm alive.

Don't listen," whispered Faber. "He's trying to confuse. He's slippery. Watch out.

Don't haggle and nag them; you were so recently of them yourself. They are so confident that they will run on forever. But they won't run on. They don't know that this is all one huge big blazing meteor that makes a pretty fire in space, but that some day it'll have to hit. They see only the blaze, the pretty fire, as you saw it.

Faber sniffed the book. “Do you know that books smell like nutmeg or some spice from a foreign land? I loved to smell them when I was a boy.

Faber: Number one as I say quality information. Number two: Leisure to digest it. And number three: the right to carry out actions based on what people learn from the interaction of the first two. Ray Bradbury Fahrenheit 451

My feet," said Montag. "I can't move them. I feel so damn silly. My feet won't move!" "Listen. Easy now," said the old man gently. "I know, I know. You're afraid of making mistakes. Don't be. Mistakes can be profited by. Man, when I was young I shoved my ignorance in people's faces. They beat me with sticks. By the time I was forty my blunt instrument had been honed to a fine cutting point for me. If you hide your ignorance, no one will hit you and you'll never learn.

At least you were a fool about the right things,” said Faber.

The old man would go on with this talking and this talking, drop by drop, stone by stone, flake by flake. His mind would well over at last and he would not be Montag any more, this the old man told him, assured him, promised him. He would be Montag-plus-Faber, fire plus water, and then, one day, after everything had mixed and simmered and worked away in silence, there would be neither fire nor water, but wine. Out of two separate and opposite things, a third. And one day he would look back upon the fool and know the fool.

I don't talk things, sir,' said Faber. 'I talk the meaning of things. I sit here and know I'm alive.

I'm numb, he thought. When did the numbness really begin in my face? In my body? ...The numbness will go away, he thought. It'll take time, but I'll do it, or Faber will do it for me. Someone somewhere will give me back the old face and the old hands the way they were.

I don’t know. We have everything we need to be happy, but we’re not happy. Something’s missing. I looked around. The only thing I positively knew was gone was the books I’d burned in ten or twelve years. So I thought books might help.” “You’re a hopeless romantic,” said Faber. “It would be funny if it were not serious. It’s not books you need, it’s some of the things that once were in books. The same things could be in the "parlour families” today. The same infinite detail and awareness could be projected through the radios and televisors, but are not. No, no, it’s not books at all you’re looking for! Take it where you can find it, in old phonograph records, old motion pictures, and in old friends; look for it in nature and look for it in yourself. Books were only one type of receptacle where we stored a lot of things we were afraid we might forget.

I don't talk about things, sir,' said Faber. 'I talk about the meaning of things. I sit here and know I'm alive.

Faber sniffed the book. "Do you know that books smell like nutmeg or some spice from a foreign land?

I don’t talk things, sir,” said Faber. “I talk the meaning of things. I sit here and know I’m alive.

Books were only one type of receptacle where we stored a lot of things we were afraid we might forget. There is nothing magical in them at all. The magic is only in what books say. -Faber

Silence. Montag sat like a carved white stone. The echo of the final hammer on his skull died slowly away into the black cavern where Faber waited for the echoes to subside. And then when the startled dust had settled down about Montag's mind, Faber began, softly, "All right, he's had his say. You must take it in. I'll say my say, too, in the next hours. And you'll take it in. And you'll try to judge them and make your decisions as to which way to jump, or fall. But I want it to be your decision, not mine, and not the Captain's. But remember that the Captain belongs to the most dangerous enemy to truth and freedom, the solid unmoving cattle of the majority. We all have our harps to play. And it's up to you now to know with which ear you'll listen.

Only recently, glancing at the novel, I realized that Montag is named after a paper manufacturing company. And Faber, of course, is a maker of pencils! What a sly thing my subconscious was, to name them thus.

You’re a hopeless romantic,” said Faber. “It would be funny if it were not serious. It’s not books you need, it’s some of the things that once were in books. The same things could be in the ‘parlor families’ today. The same infinite detail and awareness could be projected through the radios and televisors, but are not. No, no, it’s not books at all you’re looking for!

You’re a hopeless romantic,” said Faber. “It would be funny if it were not serious. It’s not books you need, it’s some of the things that once were in books. The same things could be in the ‘parlor families’ today. The same infinite detail and awareness could be projected through the radios and televisors, but are not. No, no, it’s not books at all you’re looking for! Take it where you can find it, in old phonograph records, old motion pictures, and in old friends; look for it in nature and look for it in yourself. Books were only one type of receptacle where we stored a lot of things we were afraid we might forget. There is nothing magical in them, at all. The magic is only in what books say,

They had sat in the green soft light without saying a word for a moment and then Montag talked about the weather and then the old man responded with a pale voice. It was a strange quiet meeting. The old man admitted to being a retired English professor who had been thrown out upon the world forty years ago when the last liberal arts college shut for lack of students and patronage. His name was Faber, and when he finally lost his fear of Montag, he talked in a cadenced voice, looking at the sky and the trees and the green park, and when an hour had passed he said something to Montag and Montag sensed it was a rhymeless poem. Then the old man grew even more courageous and said something else and that was a poem, too.

Três coisas estão faltando. A primeira: você sabe por que livros como este são tão importantes? Porque têm qualidade. E o que significa a palavra qualidade? Para mim significa textura. Este livro tem poros. Tem feições. Este livro poderia passar pelo microscópio. Você encontraria vida sob a lâmina, emanando em profusão infinita. Quanto mais poros, quanto mais detalhes de vida fielmente gravados por centímetro quadrado você conseguir captar numa folha de papel, mais “literário” você será. Pelo menos, esta é a minha definição. Detalhes reveladores. Detalhes frescos. Os bons escritores quase sempre tocam a vida. Os medíocres apenas passam rapidamente a mão sobre ela. Os ruins a estupram e a deixam para as moscas. Entende agora por que os livros são odiados e temidos? Eles mostram os poros no rosto da vida. Os que vivem no conforto querem apenas rostos com cara de lua de cera, sem poros nem pelos, inexpressivos. Estamos vivendo num tempo em que as flores tentam viver de flores, e não com a boa chuva e o húmus preto. Mesmo os fogos de artifício, apesar de toda a sua beleza, derivam de produtos químicos da terra. No entanto, de algum modo, achamos que podemos crescer alimentando-nos de flores e fogos de artifício, sem completar o ciclo de volta à realidade. Você conhece a lenda de Hércules e Anteu, o gigantesco lutador cuja força era invencível desde que ele ficasse firmemente plantado na terra? Mas quando Hércules o ergueu no ar, deixando-o sem raízes, ele facilmente pereceu. Se não existe nessa lenda nenhuma lição para nós hoje, nesta cidade, em nosso tempo, então sou um completo demente. Bem, aí temos a primeira coisa de que precisamos. Qualidade, textura da informação. — E a segunda? — Lazer. — Ah, mas já temos muitas horas de folga. — Horas de folga, sim. Mas e tempo para pensar? Quando você não está dirigindo a cento e sessenta por hora, numa velocidade em que não consegue pensar em outra coisa senão no perigo, está praticando algum jogo ou sentado em algum salão onde não pode discutir com o televisor de quatro paredes. Por quê? O televisor é “real”. É imediato, tem dimensão. Diz o que você deve pensar e o bombardeia com isso. Ele tem que ter razão. Ele parece ter muita razão. Ele o leva tão depressa às conclusões que sua cabeça não tem tempo para protestar: “Isso é bobagem!”. — Somente a “família” é “gente”. — Como disse? — Minha mulher diz que os livros não são “reais”. — Graças a Deus que não. Você pode fechá-los e dizer: “Espere um pouco aí”. Você faz com eles o papel de Deus. Mas quem consegue se livrar das garras que se fecham em torno de uma pessoa que joga uma semente num salão de tevê? Ele dá a você a forma que ele quiser! É um ambiente tão real quanto o mundo. Ele se torna a verdade e é a verdade. Os livros podem ser derrotados com a razão. Mas com todo o meu conhecimento e ceticismo, nunca consegui discutir com uma orquestra sinfônica de cem instrumentos, em cores, três dimensões, e ao mesmo tempo estar e participar desses incríveis salões. Como você vê, meu salão não passa de quatro paredes de gesso. E veja. — Faber exibiu dois pequenos tampões de borracha. — Para minhas orelhas, quando ando nos jatos subterrâneos. — O Dentifrício Denham; eles não tecem, nem fiam — disse Montag, os olhos cerrados. — E para onde vamos? Os livros nos ajudariam? — Só se nos fosse dada a terceira coisa necessária. A primeira, como eu disse, é a qualidade da informação. A segunda, o lazer para digeri-la. E a terceira, o direito de realizar ações com base no que aprendemos da interação entre as duas primeiras.

Faber sniffed the book. “Do you know that books smell like nutmeg or some spice from a foreign land? I loved to smell them when I was a boy.” Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451