Personification of Entity In Fahrenheit 451 1965 by François Truffaut

 

Personification of Entity

In Fahrenheit 451 1965 by François Truffaut

Recited Credits. No text. Zoom-ins on static antennas in overexposed blue, pink, yellow. Technicolour. Firemen slide down a pole.  The leitmotif music for the firemen in their absurd toy-like fire engine. A mix of different shots from a distance of the crew and the engine on a bridge leaving the station -  including an overhead shot. 

To You I am a Question Mark. As Fahrenheit 451, My antennas are a Non-Entity because movement is restricted to My zooming camera. My Firemen are a Non-Entity, long shot group from a distance. My first close up is of a guy eating an apple. I become a short-lived Entity. The phone rings: Get out!. The sound of the siren. The guy escapes. It is only when I focus on My Montag leading the firemen and close up on My smiling captain that I become a separate Entity, a monad and an individual within My totality. This means that as an Entity I demote non-moving, out of focus, subjects into mere objects, Non-Entities. The same happens to minor characters, with little to no dialogue. This is the main motive behind My Personification of Entity. My non-inclusion as an individual within Your Auteur and Spectator based arena turns me into a lifeless, non-moving, unfocused object. I wish to open Your eyes to My situation as a monad. I often find Myself disregarded through broad Cimematic assumptions such as; ‘Cinema as Window and Frame or Door’, ‘A Phemenology of Film Experience’ or ‘What is Cinema?’ As Fahrenheit 451, I express My desire to illustrate the dictates of the current relationship, by comparing the totalitarian regime of My Manifestation with the long shot Film analysis scenario and My Entity to a ransacked house where Firemen bundle Audio-Visuals like Myself, as if I were one of the books bundled and abandoned to My fate. What means of escape do I have from My fate other than relying on Your understanding and empathy?   

Are you interested in Plato’s Republic? Well I am Plato’s Republic. . . and that skinny fellow is Alice in Wonderland. My Montag will become Great Expectations. I too have My expectations and aspirations to say ‘Well I am Fahrenheit 451.’ You might ask what is this ‘sudden and odd impulse that led Me to do a thing so alien to My nature’? Do You not regard this Personification as trickery or deception? Maybe I am one of the 23 antisocial elements [You] detained pending re-education. I, as Fahrenheit 451, am brought to Your lab as a new specimen for dissection. You breathe easy as soon as You detect a common denominator. You report that I am an analyte that stems from a literary source, something that I share with 80% of known Audio-Visuals. There are some standard deviations, but surely this is something that You can handle. In fact, You have some routine tests that You can run for Non-Entities like Me. These include Fidelity, Dialogic Process, Elision and Interpretation tests amongst others. As adaptation Fahernheit 451, I am tagged, labeled and archived, just like a non-descript book in a library. As My Captain Beatty asks ‘What type of books?’ My Guy Montag answers ‘A little bit of everything, novels, biographies, adventure stories. I didn’t really look.’ ‘Routine then.’ I stare at this version of Myself as a routine Absence, an adaptation. Does ‘the rude and biting void of refusal’ and ‘the authority of refusal’ not silence My wanting to ‘grasp’ Myself ‘afresh’?

I think we’re neighbours . . . Do you know that we make the same trip together? That’s why I thought to Myself, we ought to talk to each other. Do You mind?  Me talking of me? In My Personification as a Multiple Subject, I proposed My inclusion as an Embodied DaSein, as a third neighbouring angle in a triangular dialogue composed of You the Author, You the Audience and Myself, the individual Audio-Visual. In My Personification as Compass, I proposed a separation from You by anchoring My bearings through My perspective, whereas in My Personification of Terminology, I question the very terms that You use, like ‘adaptation.’ I’m in a play with one part missing. That’s me. ‘Obedience is never pure or simple in one who reasons and disputes.’  As Fahrenheit 451, I cannot do otherwise but appeal My case. I see Myself as part of a triangle with Myself as the missing angle. When the people look at Me than I have to speak. They ask Me questions and I have to say what I think. When You as Author and Audience, look at Me I have to perform. Can I attempt to reverse the experience of Your relationship with Me? Can I put You in My Linda’s shoes in front of My screen as I stage a scenario, beep a red light and force You to answer My Questions? Will You fare better than My Linda does in the face of the impossible? 

More sport for everyone. Strengthen the group spirit, organise the fun. Just keep them busy, that’s what matters. Am I right? I am Your Question-tag. My captain does not give Me, as Montag, the power to protest. The ‘doctors’ throw Me out of My wife’s room as I hear them laugh and take her stocking’s off.  ‘You leave it all to Us.’ So I, as Montag, turn away and let You do as You please. As My analyst, You look for hidden referents and try to ‘establish a basic typology of texts.’ You may stick to the image of My apple and You freeze frame it, blind to the fact that I move on as a continual restless movement of Light, Sound and their Absence. The apple therefore becomes the forbidden fruit of My Genesis that threw Adam and Eve out of Eden in Your eyes. You now question whether this image implies a standard deviation and a dialogic process from Eden. As you freeze frame My apple, maybe, I can try to join You at Your table and discuss Eden as a metaphor for adaptation, where an Audio-Visual is treated as a close-reading, a portrayal of book interpretation through light and sound. I learn that no human has ever been in Eden. Surely, this implies that any image of Paradise is subjective. In other words there are multiple Edens; Literary, Ideological and Artistic Edens. Eden becomes ‘a dialogue [not only] amongst several writings’ but as an intersection amongst different fields. Are there any justified reservations to not extending this dialogue to My Prosopopeia? Am I not allowed to claim My Audio-Visual Eden as an individual and diverse paradise? 

My Paradise is in technicolour. My Linda is memsmerised by My Kaledioscopic Wall Screen but Barthes claims that it is not possible to ‘assert My beauty save in the form of a citation.’  Unfortunately My regime and My Audio-Visual self, does not allow Me to read. Do you ever read the books you burn? Why should I? First I am not interested, second I’ve better things to do and third it is forbidden. How dare I not read Your books and ask for recognition? Am I trying to ‘stop the replication of beauty’ by desperately trying to ‘hide it, return it to silence, to the ineffable, to aphasia?’ The bygone horse hooves heard as the Firemen march. Could this be My embodiment ‘dooming me to the fate of mortals’ in the form of an acousmètre? Is this My possible Audio citation? Enter Guy Montag, leading My crew, armed with a ring of tools for prying away fake fixtures. It will take the expertise of a new brand of firemen to unearth them. As Your adaptation, you seek My Beauty and Entity in Your Literary source. Now My books are revealed, inside a lamp, inside a fake T.V., under a false table-top and behind a radiator. They are everywhere. So how am I as Fahrenheit 451 referring ‘the referent back to the invisible’? How can My firemen affirm ‘the code without realising (that they are compromising My) original’ form? 

We studied how to detect books within the construction of a house . . . When one is looking for a book, the common areas to look for it is in rectangular objects, a cigar box or a chocolate box or any other object of a similar shape. You are expert in looking for common areas, comparisons and objects. Like My trainees, You turn Me into an exercise because to learn to find you must first know how to hide. My Firemen enter the playground. A spot check. An interruption of fun. I watch You within My playground as You seek Your tree of knowledge in My garden of Eden. Where is Genette’s intertextuality or paratextuality in My manifestation? Where is My metatextuality or hypertextuality hidden? My architextuality? Text, text, text, yet I am not about hiding books but about exposing them. My firemen’s expertise is in burning text. Welcome to My Paradise. I am symbolic of Your Marriage of Heaven and Hell. As My ‘Rintrah roars and shakes [My] fires,’ I, as Fahrenheit 451, cannot afford to be ‘meek’ on a ‘perilous path’ if I want to be the ‘just [Persona who] kept [My] course along the vale of death.’  I know that I have a lot in common with You as My Author and Audience. I understand that we are family. I am only asking to be treated as such, as kin, as an individual incomparable member. I only know that any common areas and objects have ended up in My ashes. This knowledge only pushes My Questions further. If I am the ashes of all Your endeavour, do I not interrupt all dialogue? Does My merciless, unrepentant destruction not only make this conversation even more impossible?

Shall we talk about this promotion of yours?  As Montag, (Man Monday), embodied as blonde Oskar Werner with a heavy German accent I am a bit of a misfit in My crew but My aptitude as a professional thief of book appropriation seems to have paid off. As Montag I am expected to adapt, to embrace sports, have a child, get a second wall and be part of the Family. Promotion, as an Entity, comes at a price. Increase the dosage. More sport for everyone. Strengthen the group spirit. Organise the fun. Just keep them busy, that’s what matters. The price is separation from the source where I used to belong. A forced parting from My parent to arrive in My foreign novel homeland of My audience. Truffaut had to forfeit his French for Me, his only English language creation. His test, becomes My torture and departure from Bradbury’s book. Should I achieve My promotion, My access to Your dialectical discourse, will I be expected to use Your techniques of fragmentation and deconstruction? Will I have to ‘star’ My Entity and butcher Myself into units or lexia? Would I have to focus on My forbidden apple, as an example, to seek the concealed and illusionary values of My molecular regime? Will I finally lose any illusionary qualities by uncovering the ‘unifying impulse against which truth is read’? I ponder on My impossible promotion. Our priorities are so different. You want to find how and why My tale pivots from Your book or inquiries, whereas I am in search of Myself. Will there always be an interruption, a divide between Me and You?

Montag has one quality that I appreciate greatly. He says very little. As Fahrenheit 451, My Entity is not as naive as My Montag who answers ‘Yes I do’ and ‘Absolutely sir!’  to My captain’s ‘Am I right?’ My marriage vows are of a hellish kind, a Rintrah. You may ‘be right in refusing to admit [Me] into Your well-ordered state.’ Instead, I remain on probation as a potential and promising, but suspected 7th candidate within the hierarchy of the Arts. Captain Beatty seems to reward other officers with a medallion which is the captain’s remarkable likeness, after a few years of service, whereas I, as Montag, am still waiting.  I will never be Your likeness. My Captain asks, ‘How long have you been working for us?’ This is normally a standard question that bosses use to inform an employee that he or she will get fired. ‘As an Audio-Visual, nearly 100 years, since 1927 sir,’  I hear that My file is incomplete with 6 strips of My passport type photos missing. We need 12 you know. 2 sets of 6. I humbly apologise, but as Audio and as Visual, I have nothing really tangible to document. I hear My charges; I am being accused of My involvement in a suspect movement, a New Wave of Light, Sound and Absence; Of Branding Myself as a Camera Stylo and stealing the work of My author; of illegally appropriating the book; Of  unethical behaviour, specifically mimicking and mocking the book; Of disrespect and illegal editing of someone else’s work. Of advocating Prosopopeia as a device, as a form of expression that impertinently believes itself to be on par with literary expression; and Of Ontromorphosisation that presumptously claims to be a Person, a being equal to the esteemed Author and Audience. My Captain question’s My Montag about the day’s proceedings. Why would [anyone] do it? Sheer perversity.  Do I understand the charges against Me? 

This afternoon the analysts called me in. I don’t think I said the right things. I am not happy at all about My answers. Maybe that’s why I have been so rude to you. Do I plead guilty? I do, but not as charged. I can’t promise to think of anything to answer though. Don’t you worry about that. Once I get started, nothing can stop me. My uncle says that I am a veritable well of words [of spoken and unspoken Questions.] Indeed, I find a contradiction in the accusation of infidelity to My illegally appropriated source. All art is appropriation. I Myself am Your appropriation. If I am concealing, ommitting and adding material that is not to be found in what You call the original source, does that not make me a different Entity in my own right? Am I not unadaptable and unacceptable to My regime as My Montag and Clarissa? Am I not a betrayal to My husband as My Linda and to My team as My Fabian and Captain? 

Romantic music. A passenger kisses a window. Another passenger massages his back. I, as Montag, am watching. Am I a hallucination, a drugged reality? I can only be what I am, a fallacious replication at the most. There can be no repetition, nor fidelity to Your book as an individual unique Entity. I can only give birth to other Questions, just as You have given birth to Me. At the most I am a Barthesian migration of semes with My genes as a biological trait of convergence.  Naturally in what you are about to see, any similarity with the truth or with real life will be purely coincidental.  Infidelity, concealment and false illusion is betrayed by T.V. ‘live’ broadcasts of My Montag’s framed capture and execution while My Montag is actually alive and free. The broadcasting fallacy of the peaceful regime invites Linda to be one of the family, whilst encouraging a ruthless non-tolerant stance towards noncompliance. A mop-up squad humiliates and shaves off an unacceptable hair-do. The crowd cheers. It all goes to show that law enforcement can be fun. Does My Audio-Visual Manifestation not turn scenes of discrimination, injustice and violence into Fun as a warped newspeak for entertaining spectacle? Yet does My mastery of betrayal make Me a negative character? What about My Magical showmanship? Do You not appreciate My craft as books pop out of toasters and other unlikely places? Am I not almost like a peep show and a striptease where concealed books suddenly are revealed naked. Is My entertaining through Magic, My  employing a strategy of now-you-see-it, now-you-don’t, a reveal conceal tactic or a show but don’t tell subterfuge?

I am a Question Mark that denies My silent concealment. Like predators, My firemen sniff out My prey, but is it a random operation? On the surface, at least, it looks quite systematic and efficient as is the law and order of the regime. However, the music, the drugs, Linda’s sudden mood swings and the citizens’ dependence on drugs demonstrate a regime where minds are not trained by reason, but by necessity, dependence, harshness and force. My Personification promotes the direct opposite.  I am My honourable parent’s child. My music is a premonition of what is to come because I am a bearer of disaster.  Together with My Montag, I break all codes to smuggle books back into hiding. I mean trouble. As, Fahrenheit 451, My lens develops an evergrowing appetite for books. I delight in sporting the various book covers, just as much as I enjoy watching them burn. My curiosity knows no bounds. Who cares for orders? What happens in My world when the forbidden book comes home? I screen it. Text fills the screen and My Montag stutteringly reads. The Personal History of David Copperfield by Charles Dickens with 40 illustrations by Fizz. Montag reads everything aloud including the address of the Oxford publisher. David Copperfield chapter 1. Please understand that this is My Montag’s first reading of a book. Please forgive My accent and My lack of rhythm.  Have I correctly ‘starred’ my Entity as transgression?

Has this uncle of yours ever warned you not to speak to strangers? No he did say once …. To say that I was 20 years old and light in the head. Am I, as Fahrenheit 415, a case of ‘curiosity killed the book?’ My Clarisse’s Question echoes in the commuter monorail. Do you read the books you burn? I am sure that Truffaut did and very carefully indeed. So why do I take the trouble to read and then burn them? Is My point to make literature seem dull? Is this a bravado projecting alternatives to the literature? My original textual source, Bradbury’s, starts with, ‘It was a pleasure to burn.’ Neither My Montag, My old woman nor Captain Beatty seem to derive any pleasure as the tongues of flames lick the book covers.  Am I an exercise in deconstruction, ‘an antistructuralist gesture’ or a ‘différance’? Is my flame and My objective to prove that  are no real cinctures on the text’s meaning by destroying it? What is the pleasure in that, or the point of My Audio-Visual if this were the case?   

My Montag reads David Copperfield aloud.  I am born. Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show. Unfortunately as an Audio-Visual Entity these pages have nothing to show. Screening text would not make an exciting Audio-Visual and then again, I am a medium of frames and images not pages. Book burning is nothing new. The Chinese Qin dynasty, Constantine the Great, Savonarola’s bonfire of vanities and the Nazis all enforced it, just to mention a few. The curiosity about the book disappears and I am faced with a necessity to burn it. It springs from a conscious censorship of material that is opposed to My ideology, culture or politics. As My Montag says, books are antisocial, therefore they must be destroyed. Does the manifestation of one Entity depend on the denial of another? Is the book so diametrically in opposition to My Audio-Visual Entity that I must necessarily become the book’s total annihilation?  

My excited captain motions from upstairs. Montag, Montag. I think you should see this? I am faced with a library full of books. My Captain seems to know My books, unlike Montag. My curiosity awakes. I am being seduced. It just itches to know what these books are about, it just aches. There’s nothing there. (Picks up Shakespeare’s Othello.) These books have nothing to say. (Now Thackery’s Vanity Fair.) Books need to be read, so from My Entity’s perspective they do not provide audio or visual material for me to portray.  Look, these are all novels, all about people who have never existed. (Now Flaubert’s Madame Bovary.) The people that read them makes them unhappy, makes them want to live in other ways. My Entity cannot thrive on a different ideology of artistic endeavour that is based on paper, when Mine is a regime of light and sound. I look at My Captain, as Montag, feeling incredibly ignorant. (Now Hitler’s Mein Kampf) The only way to be happy is to make everyone feel equal so we must burn the books. All the books. My captain’s burning of the books comes after I am fully acquainted with them, in fact the only time My Captain has seen so many books was as an unqualified fireman, unable to wield a fire-blaster. This means that at that time, My Captain could not burn them. In an offscreen, pre Audio-Visual environment, I, as My Captain, must have read them. This opens My eyes to My presence as Fahrenheit 451. The annihilation comes after My prior acquaintance and not through my ignorance of it.  It shows My respect to a different Entity and the whole body of that Entity, which is literature in this case. In fact Burning the house is one thing, burning books is another. It is now, as a light snarling and sound crackling onscreen Fahrenheit 451, that I strive to burn the books that My Captain has avidly read.  Following this line of thought, is My Entity a re-education, a revisiting starting from the ashes of the opposing cultures, ideologies and politics that I burn?

Beatty: What does Montag do with his day off duty? 

Montag: Nothing very much sir. Mow the lawn sir.

Beatty: Mowing the lawn is a bit sad. 

Montag: Just watch it grow sir.

Watching the lawn mow is agreeably sad. Whatever the case, My Entity is not about watching. That is Your prerogative. My Captain realises that My Montag first has to unlearn to learn. Books are [not] so much rubbish [because] Books make people unhappy : Books disturb people. Something that disturbs and makes people unhappy betrays the power and not the nothingness of the book. In fact, My Beatty, like My Clarisse and My Old Woman all read the books they burn. My Montag’s baptism of fire involves a seduction to read from all fronts. Taunted by My Clarisse, My Old Woman and especially My Captain, I move on from a stuttering reader to hoarding an evergrowing pile of books crawling over My Montag’s house, like cockroaches haunting nooks and crannies. Linda jumps with fear as one drops from behind a picture frame. Yet, this is a baptism of fire, that My Montag still has to understand. I Follow the river upstream until [I] come to the old steam railway line. Surely now, My Montag is safe with My book. I leave the modern commuter monorail behind and return to My nostalgic pre-technological Eden. Unfortunately, this is but another conceal and reveal illusion.  Book People use tape recorders and t.v. sets and they too burn the books and keep them in mind - You might as well shed your own skin. My Linda’s present to celebrate My Montag’s promotion is a shaver. Does My Entity have to shed, shave and mow the skin of paper to find My Audio-Visual screen texture? 

I am a Question Mark. My Personification of Entity stems from My desire of being treated as ‘second without being secondary.’ I would like this to be applied to my late entry into the artistic world and as an adaptation. Could this image of shedding, shaving and changing skin illustrate Bradbury’s book as a caterpillar grounded to fibres of an eaten plant which after Truffaut’s shaving and shredding of its cocoon becomes Myself, Fahrenheit 451, a winged butterfly? This shedding or shredding of skin becomes part of the harmonious process of Myself, meticulously stripping the pages to grow into an Audio-Visual. It is obvious that I, as butterfly Fahrenheit 451, come second, but I am in no way secondary. However, I am not sure if I am pleased with all this shedding, shredding, shaving and mowing of skin. Does this not render Me, as Fahrenheit 451, into a different pen, a mere negation of the book, a ‘différance’ or a simulacrum of dissimilitude? 

What did Montag hope to get out of this print? Happiness?  How to walk on the waters? All these contradictions burn the pages like flower petals or butterflies, pure innocent black. My Montag needs to learn that It is [not] a job (medium) like any other. A shedding or shredding renders a text incoherent which is evidienced when My camera scans the text, not giving You time to read and omitting text that is not in frame. This deconstruction is portrayed through the, as yet inexperienced, eyes of My Montag as I frantically try to capture unreadable Cyrillic and Japanese characters before they are swallowed up by the flames. Am I right to suspect that deconstruction has little to do with Fahrenheit 451’s bonfire?

Within the overwhelmingly red decor of a cafeteria I watch a man approach a red information box with a siren light. The man hesitates but he cannot keep away from the box’s magnetism, like a moth attracted to light.  As Montag I skirt the siren light to such an extent that I lose My power to overcome gravity and am rendered unable to fly up or down the fireman's pole. Is the moth metaphor a more befitting one for My Simplification? Who can explain the fascination of fire? What draws us to it?  As a moth, I am both singed and attracted by fire. My fire-engine, shot at a distance from all angles to My leitmotif music sports a red dragon emblem breathing fire, the embodiment of chaos, evil and untamed nature. My book burning scenes multiply through My multiplied fire-engine scenes because all conceal or reveal fire. Unlike a book, I cannot linger on descriptions but obsessively manifest scenes of burning books. As, Fahrenheit 451, I may be diagnosed as a pyromaniac where scenes of books on fire, ‘change their forms into that of a deadly moth.’ This becomes the most attractive visual on offer. My birth as an audio-visual fails to fit the smooth transition of a butterfly to a cocoon as a meticulous shredding of paper. I, as Fahrenheit 451, seem to be a phoenix reborn through death by fire, a communion through consummation. Is this My individual natural becoming?’

‘What do you want, martyrdom?’ My Beatty asks as I refuse to stand away and give up My books, There seems to be a sacrifice involved, an Ovidian Metamorphosis where ‘forms [are] changed into new entities’. My Old Woman replies, I want to die as I have lived. I light up a match and set My whole library and My whole self into a display of fire. My old woman’s martyrdom does not seem to be a shedding of skin, nor a denial or invalidation to strip Me of archaic knowledge. Martyrdom and sacrifice do not seem to imply my need or want to disassociate myself from the books ‘who represent that previous way of knowing.’ Can the candle, the flame help me understand? I wonder. Is this why I, as Fahrenheit 451, am so fascinated with fire?

I remain Your Question Mark. My Ontromorphosisation of My snarling tongues and My predatory flames. There seems to be a method in my madness. Rather than a deconstruction, I feel that My fire is framed within a constructive-developmental lens which reflects My natural cycle. As Fahrenheit 451, this is My nostalgic fire, My offscreen past and conception, My maturity and coming into the world. It seems that My Eden is an inferno, and not a paradise for books which it transforms into Dantean spectres of smoke. Is My Entity not often referred to as spectral after all? 

We burn them to ashes and then we burn the ashes, that is our motto. Allow me, Fahrenheit 415,  to look at this constructive cycle of fire. The Phlogiston ‘inflammable principle’ maintains that this principle or spectre escapes during combustion to mingle with the air. Do I need to escape my book in order to breathe and produce light, sound and their absence? A glass pane is broken. A gust of wind animates the pages of ‘The World of S. Dali’ by Robert Decharmes to become a moving image. This animation reflects Painlevé’s factual image, where metamorphosis is a plant, biologically and scientifically, growing within the Eisensteinian frame, breathing oxygen. However as the music crescendo unfolds with close-ups of an unwinding hose, gloves, lights, switches and kerosin spluttering on the books, I understand that My metamorphosis entails a more drastic animation. My old woman greets My Firemen. Play the man, Master Ridley; we shall this day light such a candle, by God’s grace, in England, as I trust shall never be put out.’ As My old woman catches fire, My Montag cannot tear away from the sight. It becomes My inescapable nightmare of an ever raging fire. Is this inextinguishable fire, the stamp of my enduring Entity as Fahrenheit 451? 

The fight against the Enemies of the public peace is gaining momentum. 2750 pounds of conventional editions, 830 pounds of first editions, 17 pounds of manuscripts were destroyed. My Personification of Entity is dystopic in nature. I have nothing but the ashes of My burnt books to work on. There are no shredded strips of a Tale to create a deconstructed collage. However, as Fahrenheit 451, I feel that there is something I am missing. I refer to Lavoisier to experiment with sulphur and phosphorus to find that ashes weigh more than the original substances before being burnt. Is my Entity an addition of weight to My Tale of human endeavour? 

The smell of kerosene, the scent it lingers. I don’t mind, I think of it as a perfume. Tapputi made her perfume from the distilling and destruction of flowers with oil, calamus, cyperus, myrrh and balsam. Likewise My blue Kerosene adds colour and motion to the picture, providing it with oxygen and fuel to ensure eternal life.  My fire blaster reminds me of gold and metals smelted in a furnace to be moulded into artefacts. Do I need the ashes of Your art to create My perfume as Fahrenheit 451? Why does My Captain not shoot? Why do I arm My Montag with a fire blaster? Am I taunting My Montag to burn My marriage bed, My Wall set and My very self? Is My Captain helping My transformation in the knowledge that content lost becomes content gained? As My Captain mingles with the ashes, am I gaining the weight of My Captain’s insight needed for My Tale? Does this not reflect an Ovidian Metamorphosis as a violent transformation caused by a wrathful fire of grief, rape or murder? My Personification of Entity becomes a predestined banishment from Eden as My Clarisse now partakes of the reappearing Apple offered by the same guy in My introductory visual. However this is not a manifestation of characters transformed into inanimate beings with silent voices. I am antennas, and the transmission of radio and light waves. I am a cacophony of embodied book people, a recital in the flesh. I am an Ovidian Cadmus’ founding My Tale, as Fahrenheit 451, miraculously creating an Entity of Light, Sound and their Absence from the ashes that I have burnt. As Fahrenheit 451, I wonder whether You will agree with Me that My dystopic, destructive nature is but a good means to a good end as a novel reconstruction, an architectural rebuilding. Do I not Manifest, as Fahrenheit 451 Blanchot’s warning that when ‘The disaster comes back, it would always be the disaster after the disaster - a silent harmless return’ ?