Empathic Writing

Fahrenheit 451
Ray Bradbury
Faber,
Not once had I ever thought beauty could be found in horrors. Things could either be
beautiful or terrifying; the two did not fit together in one scenario. I now know I was a fool to
believe that, just like I have been many times before.
A small smile was the first thing to form on my face when we saw what was left of the
city this morning. The thousands of ashes dancing in the gentle wind were enough to leave us
speechless. It was as if they were celebrating, finally free of the oppressing society they had
been forced to uphold. A few pieces of buildings remained. Part of a column here, a wall from
a firehouse there, trying not to drown in the sea of gray the streets had become. It was the
kind of scene no parlor could ever replicate.
Instinctually, my nose searched for the distinctive smell of kerosene, but I stopped
once I realised no fireman had sprayed the fluid over the buildings, or even ignited any flame.
Did those who had destroyed the city deserve my admiration for creating the scene my eyes
rushed to take in?
The moment of awe and wonder quickly passed. It was not hard to remember we were
standing in the remains of a war, choking on the ashes of those who did not run. Of those like
my Millie, my poor Millie, who now floated around as dull dust, having no choice to go
anywhere but where the breeze wished to travel.
You once said our voices would be heard when the bombs silenced all the families. It
is silent now old man,
too
silent. Only the winds whispers accompany the crunching of our
feet and the rhythm of our breath. Is there anyone left to listen?
I know there must be.
Over and over I say this under my breath, trying to convince myself of it. There
must
be someone out there. Out in the country, along the railways, in other cities yet it is hard to
believe there is any life at all after having seen the remnants of the place we used to call home.
Old man, I am telling you all this not for your sake, but for my own. You might never
even read this, for I do not know if you have truly gone to St. Louis, but I need to organize my
mind in some way. My head is bursting at the seams from all the thoughts that have invaded it
without permission. Images of Millie burning in no more than a few milliseconds, maybe
laughing in that hollow way she used to, or... maybe not; maybe horrified and scared and lost,
feeling she was about to die with only emptiness in her heart. Thoughts of Clarisse being run
over by a careless driver, her limp body left in a pool of maroon blood. Beatty being engulfed
by flames; swallowed by the bright red kerosene monster I worshipped at one point in my life.
I cannot get rid of these images passing before my eyes Faber. I cant. In a way though,
I do not want to, despite the pain I go through every single time I am reminded of certain
events. Why would I hide the
pores
, the truth, the very essence of life, just to spare both you
and me of the pain? I wish to embrace life, not kick her in the stomach as if she were not
worth my time. It is what I have promised myself not to fall back into. I know you will

understand what I am trying to say, even if at certain points my own thoughts confuse me.
As my head was bombarded with all these memories, in the city I could do nothing
more than keep moving my feet forward. We walked around for some time, seeing if there
was anything we could salvage, but war has never been known for being merciful, and this
time was no exception.
Old man, you must be wondering who is that
we
I talk about, instead of writing a
simple
I
. I am not alone. Old intellectuals and outcasts have indeed taken refuge in the
country along the railways, like you said they had. A group of them have taken me in.
First of all there is Granger, whose patience seems to have no limits. Then there are
Clement and Simmons and Padover, all men with tired faces but a strong sense of
determination. There are many more like them (I guess I must say
like us
now) out there
along the railways and in small towns. They have explained to me that every man has become
a book! These men and women that have stayed in the shadows for years have all become
part of a walking library, spread over the entire country, hiding, but not forgetting, words and
pages and chapters and books they once read.
I have realized it
is possible Faber. Pulling people out of their shells and getting them
to listen. Maybe not soon, but at least someday it will happen, and one by one the man-books
will come out, and the words in their memories will be written down. It is a majestic plan,
carefully put together over many years. Books read by thousands will not be lost.
Even now, I can sit and relax, and parts of what I have read pop up effortlessly.

Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin
. It is neither
forgotten nor lost old man.
Somewhere, many kilometers away, you might be sitting in a bus with no destination
and now no place of departure either. You might have seen how our city and all those who
were in it faded away until the last ember burnt out, but hopefully you know just like I do that
we must not end our journey here. We must keep remembering. Helping others remember
too, and remind them we must keep remembering.
If those who do not build must burn, then we must build so as to not burn again. Old
man, I may be a fool in more aspects than I can count, but there is something I now am sure of.
Burning no longer brings me any pleasure, yet it
is possible, with fire, to keep our bones
warm.
Take care my friend. Hopefully one day we will meet again.
Guy Montag

Words: 1079