He glanced back at the wall. How like a mirror, too, her face.
Impossible; for how many people did you know that refracted your own light to you? People were more often -- he searched for a simile, found one in his work -- torches, blazing away until they whiffed out. How rarely did other people's faces take of you and throw back to you your own expression, your own innermost trembling thought?
He felt that the stars had been pulverized by the sound of the black jets and that in the morning the earth would be covered with their dust like a strange snow.
Books bombarded his shoulders, his arms, his upturned face.
A book lit, almost obediently, like a white pigeon, in his hands, wings fluttering. In the dim, wavering light, a page hung open and it was like a snowy feather, the words delicately painted thereon. In all the rush and fervor, Montag had only an instant to read a line, but it blazed in his mind for the next minute as if stamped there with fiery steel. "Time has fallen asleep in the afternoon sunshine." He dropped the book. Immediately another fell into his arms.
~ Ray Bradbury