A Burning Love

Author's Note: This piece is my first response to Fahrenheit 451. I responded to a prompt asking to compare and contrast Clarisse and Mildred. I decided to focus on using examples of symbolism from the book to strengthen my points within the response. As always, I used lots of text evidence so I could better analyze the novel. I made sure to take my time with addressing each quote, and not rush or simply list them. At certain points, I noticed that I almost have a poetic, artistic sound in some of my sentences, and I tried to keep this constant throughout the piece. I made sure not to not drift into scientific or academic vocabulary.

 … if she died, he was certain he wouldn't cry. For it would be the dying of an unknown, a street face, a newspaper image,  and it was suddenly so very wrong that he had begun to cry, not at death but at the very thought of not crying at death, a silly empty man near a silly empty woman, while the hungry snake made her still more empty. (p 44)

The way in which Montag addresses Mildred, and even the way in which he reminisces about Mildred, is that of a complete and utter stranger. If one were to take Montag's dialogue about his wife out of text, the matrimonial relationship they obtain would never be perceived. For his emotions towards Mildred are long deceased, and he no longer knows the woman who sleeps at his side every night. Montag begins to realize that he is losing her, losing touch with her, like sand running through a sieve. In Montag's tenebrous and dreary world, he is drowning in dark, black ashes, until a beautiful stranger ignites a fire that will forever burn in his heart -- a love he cannot extinguish.

From the very first sighting of Clarisse McCellan, she breaths life back into Montag's soul with each and every word she whispers. Even in the darkness of the night, he sees her in nothing less than a great light, as if she were the only thing lit by the moon itself. "Laughter blew across the moon-colored lawn from the house of Clarisse. " (p 17) The very language Bradbury uses to elucidate the color of Clarisse and everything that surrounds her is angelic -- her skin a milk-white, her eyes two miraculous bits of violet amber, her skin fragile milk crystal with a soft, constant light, her body wrapped in a simple white dress. Clarisse becomes a bright splendor in a dying world.

Once Montag arrives home, back to his black-ash world, he finds his wife laying lifeless in bed, sea shells embedded in her ears, the waves of her imaginary ocean sweeping her further out to sea. It is as clear as Montag's reflection in Clarisse's eyes that she is not much more than another confusing, incomprehensible, disappointing aspect of his life. "Montag sank down into a chair and looked at this woman … he put out his hand to feel the warmness of breath on his palm … There are too many of us, he thought ... Nobody knows anyone. Strangers come and violate you. Strangers come and cut your heart out." (p 16) He is so detached from Mildred, so uncertain of her presence, Montag must hold out his hand to feel her breath, to test for life of "this woman" he is married to. Did Mildred simply violate him, violate his life, take his heart out cold? These men drained her blood, stole her soul -- she is nothing but an artificial version of herself. Who is this woman before him? Who is Montag to love now? The men might as well have drained her heart and taken that with them too, for there was no longer any love shared between the two. "Some one else's blood there. If only someone else's flesh and brain and memory." (p 16)

All of these issues Montag faces when present with Mildred, all of his concerns disappear for just a moment when he is accompanied by Clarisse. Suddenly, he is no longer just a husband, or a fireman; all of his labels are erased. For once in Montag's life all of his badges are removed. Clarisse digs deep inside of Montag, revealing an entirely new person, leaving him feeling bare, and hopelessly revealed. "He felt she was walking in a circle about him, turning him end for end, shaking him quietly, and emptying his pockets, without once moving herself. " (p 6) Her questions instantly spark interest within Montag, questions he had never considered, much less heard of. Intrigued by this angelic force, he is captivated, and can't resist her enchanting presence. The ways of  Clarisse, everything she does, says, is now relevant -- all of it. She opens up an entirely new world for Montag, a tranquil universe that brings life to his soul." 'The rain feels good … Rain even tastes good' ... And she ran off and left him standing there in the rain …  he tilted his head back in the rain, for just a few moments, and opened his mouth . . ." (p  24)

A Stream of Consciousness: Name

Author's Note: This stream of consciousness presented a slight challenge to me. I struggled a bit to immediately paint a clear picture in my mind, but as I just let the words release themselves from my thoughts and transfer them to my writing without thinking twice, I seemed to create a better flow. I noticed that a lot of the sentences I wrote had double meanings, and some metaphors, with which I was pleased. I wanted to leave some room for the reader to gather their own mental  picture.

Plastered, all over slabs of concrete -- images, letters, words, more words. The colors eventually all blur together in a fantastic swirl of different shades, different moods, and feelings. To think someone, maybe years ago, maybe just moments, slipped through a fence of fear and wrote down all their built up thoughts -- released them all on this wall. Looking at it, I struggle to understand. Is there even meaning behind any of this scribbled nonsense? But in a way, it looks like a piece of art, and screams to me in strange voices. Scrawled out before me lies a world of misconception , of frightful thoughts transferred, disguised, into beautiful codes. Perhaps it is not meant to understand, but to simply look at from afar, and admire. The works of people I have never met speak to me, and I am listening. 

A Stream Of Consciousness: Stone

Stone

Author's Note: This is a stream of consciousness I wrote on a day where I was simply surprised by how quickly my emotions and mood can change. This piece captures how confused, and lost I felt. Like always, I was focused on painting a clear image as I wrote, and capturing numerous human senses to place myself more in the scene. 

The cold, wet, grey stone felt smooth in my hand. It appeared to be unharmed on the outside -- no dents or discoloration. It looked, almost, too perfect. Frustrated, I threw it back into the pond, and there was a splat noise rather than the usual skipping of stones sound. The pond was so shallow, there was no where the stone could have gone but down, swallowed by the mud below. I felt like that stone. Consumed by the world around me, buried in some deep dark place and it was all so unexpected. No matter what I thought would happen, my stones would not skip along the clear surface of the water; I was always lost below the surface, and confused. Nothing made sense. I didn't always know where I really was. Everything, my life, was simply a hazy dream, or rather, a nightmare. 

The musty, damp air consumed me and my thoughts, the wind whipping at my red cheeks. My hands felt old, and destroyed -- covered with the awful mud and dripping with the murky water. My face felt soaked, but with what? I could no longer tell if it was the drizzling rain from above, or my own tears. It was all simply too much. I turned, and made my way into the woods. It was just another place foreign to me, yet I had nothing to lose; anything was better than this.