451 градус по Фаренгейту on Windows Pc

From the age of nine until adolescence, I spent at least two days a week at the city library in Waukegan, Illinois. And in the summer months there was hardly a day when I could not be found there, hiding behind the shelves, breathing in the smell of books, like overseas spices, drunk from them before reading.
Later, as a young writer, I discovered that the best way to get inspired is to go to the library of Los Angeles and wander through it, pulling books from the shelves, reading - a line here, a paragraph there, grabbing, devouring, moving on and then suddenly writing on the first piece of paper. Often I stood for hours at the card-index tables, scratching on these scraps of paper (they were constantly kept in the library for research notes), afraid to break off and go home while I was excited by this excitement. Then I ate, drank and slept with books - of all kinds and sizes, colors and countries: This was manifested later in that when Hitler burned books 451 degrees Fahrenheit free of charge, I experienced it as sharply as, forgive me when he killed people, because in the long history of mankind they were one flesh. Is it the mind, the body, thrown into the oven - it's a sin, and I wore it in myself, passing by the countless doors of fire stations 451 degrees Fahrenheit, patting service dogs, admiring my long reflection in brass poles, by which the firemen move down. And I often passed by fire stations, walking and returning from the library, days and nights, in Illinois, a boy.
Among the notes on my life, I found many pages describing red cars and firemen rattling their shoes. And I remember one night when I heard a piercing scream from a room in my grandmother's house, I ran into that room, flung open the door to look inside and screamed myself.
Because there, clambering up the wall, there was a luminous monster. He was growing before my eyes. He made a powerful roaring sound, as if from an oven and seemed fantastically alive when he was eating wallpaper and devouring the ceiling.
It was, of course, fire. But he seemed a dazzling beast, and I will never forget him and the way he fascinated me before we fled to fill the bucket and kill him to death.
Probably these memories - about thousands of nights in a friendly, warm, huge darkness, with puddles of green light of lamps, in libraries, and fire stations, and the evil fire that visited our house in person, joined later with knowledge of new fireproof materials, so that "451 degrees Fahrenheit" grew from notes to paragraphs, from paragraphs to the story:
"451 degrees Fahrenheit" was completely written in the library building of Los Angeles, on a paid typewriter, to which I was forced to feed ten cents every half hour. I wrote in a room full of students who did not know 451 Fahrenheit, what I was doing there, just like I did not know what they were doing there. Probably, some other writer was working in this room. I like to think so. Is there a better place to work than the depth of the library?
But now I'm leaving, and I'm taking you into my own hands, in another year, with a nightmare, a book clutched in my hand, and a book hidden in my head. Please go with him a little way.

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