《Fahrenheit 451》读后感摘抄

　　《Fahrenheit 451》是一本由Ray Bradbury著作，Ballantine Books出版的Mass Market Paperback图书，本书定价：$6.99，页数：208，特精心从网络上整理的一些读者的读后感，希望对大家能有帮助。

　　《Fahrenheit 451》精选点评：

　　●本来以为会是个简陋版的1984，结果发现还挺美的。

　　●备课所需读了一遍，想法很准但是写得好无聊啊。不过读Dover Beach那一段（由于没有被剧透过）眼睛也是湿了一阵。

　　●去年读过，算是迄今为止我最喜欢的一本反乌托邦小说。

　　●最后一章的最后两小节猛加一星！果然Bradbury符合我的胃口啊！

　　●经过半个世纪这本书现在读起来竟然和现在的状况如此相似，虽然没有消防员焚书这么夸张，但是本质是差不多的。科技发展得太快纸质书基本上是尘封之物，我也是在近几年才开始有兴趣去看书的。最初的收音机电视机的出现代替了书本，人们喜欢听觉视觉上的刺激多于动脑。再之后电脑互联网的出现，电视机什么的就成了摆设。网络成了生活的全部，其实在大量信息画面的压榨下人反而会越来越空虚。人与人之间面对面的交流越来越少。就像这本书里写的Montag那傻X老婆觉得television "family“才是真正的活生生的人，这有点像是玩网络游戏的人，想当年我也处于这种状态，虽然现在还有点（old habits die hard）Clarisse在这本书中如同一股清风，是我最爱的角色，使这稍显沉闷的书变得活泼生动。

　　●觉得像是政治寓言，但比1984诗意得多。作者写这书的时候应该还很年轻吧，因为字里行间那种为了某种东西赴汤蹈火在所不惜的浪漫主义精神……

　　●雞叭書。。。不解釋。。。

　　●华氏451原来是纸面燃烧的温度，知道这点后被震住了。无比贴切的标题！头两部分很精彩，第三部分略无奈，所以《撕裂的末日》以精彩打斗和彻底解放作为完结果然是一招好棋。

　　●It reminds me why one has to live,read and create

　　●最棒的反乌托邦小说之一。

　　《Fahrenheit 451》读后感(一)：不懂哇不懂

　　看不懂这本书...看来我的思想境界太低了...3/4都在铺垫，就最后有几页讲到了montag觉醒后的斗争，然后就没了。有没人能告诉我除了思想曾被从少数人逐渐壮大的一群人毁灭后，又在少数人中开始孕育，这书还表达了什么深刻的思想？

　　《Fahrenheit 451》读后感(二)：F^451 vs. 1984

　　I finished 180 pages (roughly) on the 10hr-ish flight back from San Francisco to Beijing; that's the entire novel plus Bradbury's own afterwards and Coda. In terms of pages per minute, this might be a personal record.

　　ut that doesn't mean much; I've read far fewer pages on other flights and came out feeling more filled up.

　　Why？ That's the question I am pondering about, a rather personal one. Closing up on the last page, I can't help comparing this with 1984 (by George Owell). This is odd indeed. In many ways, Bradbury has been far more precise in predicting what's going to happen -- we are (or will be, as the young Bradbury wrote many years ago) living in a world so compressed by too many conflicting ideas from too many interest groups, to the point of an absolute reversal: burning the books so as to make space for cheap entertainments, which is what all the non-book people want.

　　And Bradbury carries the ultimate optimism, just like Camu does (my favorite philosopher): the return of hope, characterized by the symbol of Phoenix. Owell, on the other hand, paints a more depressing future, one that is plausible only under -- shall we say -- speculations？

　　It's like photography -- there is no objective taking of a picture. The picture says something about the taker himself. So here it is, a truth that would be rude if I were 10 years younger: I prefer to read or imagine a world of non-existance (quite possibly because of its very absurdity), so I can find a reason to love this world instead.

　　《Fahrenheit 451》读后感(三)：人肉USB和幻想

　　Ray Bradbury 的小说 Fahrenheit 451中，人类文化传承的最后方法是口口相传。

　　初看到这个方法，我感到特别可怕。像我这样记性特别差，理解力特别差，一遇到重要场合就发抖忘词的人，遇到这样的场合，该怎么帮助人类？我会是对人类毫无帮助的人，我应该留在那些情愿被洗脑的人类身边。

　　每当想到这种情形，我就知道会有人笑话我。即使是写幻想小说的作家也觉得我疯了，我怎么可以相信那些虚幻的事情。可我觉得可悲的是她。一个人不相信自己写的东西，不相信自己喜欢的东西，认为幼稚，偏激，虚幻，傻气，这个人该有多么精神分裂？就像我和一个党员聊起天，说起共产主义社会，他说，你怎么会相信这种东西？

　　我并不是像一种信念一般相信这世界上必定有外星人，必定有一个光明的前程，我也并不是绝对坚信明天太阳不会被升起，地球终将被僵尸或者毫无逻辑的外星人损坏。

　　如果同时相信这么多矛盾的事情，我的脑袋早就被烧坏了。

　　我只是包容无限的可能性：我认为学会面对虚空培养自己内心最终的平静很重要，可以在突然被宇宙联合国禁锢在虚无中或者时间旅行出错被放逐时不会惊慌；我相信学会手动车比自动车好，致命疾病来临僵尸追逐时我可以随便遇到一辆货车就开跑。

　　为什么不能有所准备？要求别人和自己一样想同样的事情，要求别人按照自己定义的正常生活，本身就是一件疯狂的事情。把自己当成主，竟然有脸定义世间的规则。

　　像我这样的投机派，估计能更好的活下去。

　　可是，人类作为人肉USB，其实并不是特别科幻的事情。

　　当测验一遍一遍考察那些记忆时，我就慢慢意识到，这是很真实的事。中学大学只是学习一种思维方法，东西可以很快忘记，可是要成为专家，不能。从研究生开始慢慢培养和固化自己的记忆，自己的专业知识库，就是在培养人肉USB。

　　书本僵化，落后，无法包括万千。这是人类语言的局限，归纳的局限，专业学生无法成为或者没有时间成为好写手的缺陷，出版业滞后的局限，版权知识经济效益的局限，个人喜好兴趣时间分配的局限……众多的原因。信息化无法弥补这一点，信息追求肤浅，刺激，虚幻，量化而没有质量，虚伪的竞争，即刻淘汰无暇阅读大量埋没的危险……人脑是最后的空地。

　　人脑有这么多还未被发现的潜能，人脑暂时无法被理解的惊人的分析和处理匹配信息的能力，在意识休息时仍然运转，没有人的表面意识和机器可以充当比人脑更好的信息处理器。

　　一个专业，全面，甚至偶尔被个人喜好影响于是变得带着些玩笑，性感，或者小天真，变幻莫测，新思想迭起的知识库，只能被人这样矛盾的物种生产。不同的知识不断被融合，锻造，重新组织，理解，迸发新的解决方案，思路，可能性，又重新融合，提炼，再创造……

　　而他同时是移动的，他移动的如此随行，快速，多样，不可预测，它比任何已知的交通和交流传输工具都要具有更有深度和质量的惊喜。他交谈，追逐，交配，养育，旅行的时候，他的知识像空气一样侵蚀任何人的皮肤。

　　人肉USB一直在被生产和锻炼当中，从古至今。

　　我只要好好通过博士生考试，我就知道明天和Montag跑进森林的时候，我也可以加入他们的队伍，而且我记住不止一本书。

　　《Fahrenheit 451》读后感(四)：【文摘】Fahrenheit 451 【也谈何谓“幸福”】

　　【一】

　　quot;There you have it, Montag. It didn't come from the Government down. There was no dictum, no declaration, no censorship, to start with, no! Technology, mass exploitation, and minority pressure carried the trick, thank God. Today, thanks to them, you can stay happy all the time, you are allowed to read comics, the good old confessions, or trade journals."

　　quot;Yes, but what about the firemen, then？" asked Montag.

　　quot;Ah." Beatty leaned forward in the faint mist of smoke from his pipe. "What more easily explained and natural？ With school turning out more runners, jumpers, racers, tinkerers, grabbers, snatchers, fliers, and swimmers instead of examiners, critics, knowers, and imaginative creators, the word `intellectual,' of course, became the swear word it deserved to be. You always dread the unfamiliar. Surely you remember the boy in your own school class who was exceptionally 'bright,' did most of the reciting and answering while the others sat like so many leaden idols, hating him. And wasn't it this bright boy you selected for beatings and tortures after hours？ Of course it was. We must all be alike. Not everyone born free and equal, as the Constitution says, but everyone made equal. Each man the image of every other; then all are happy, for there are no mountains to make them cower, to judge themselves against. So! A book is a loaded gun in the house next door. Burn it. Take the shot from the weapon. Breach man's mind. Who knows who might be the target of the well-read man？ Me？ I won't stomach them for a minute. And so when houses were finally fireproofed completely, all over the world (you were correct in your assumption the other night) there was no longer need of firemen for the old purposes. They were given the new job, as custodians of our peace of mind, the focus of our understandable and rightful dread of being inferior; official censors, judges, and executors. That's you, Montag, and that's me."

　　【二】

　　quot;You must understand that our civilization is so vast that we can't have our minorities upset and stirred. Ask yourself, What do we want in this country, above all？ People want to be happy, isn't that right？ Haven't you heard it all your life？ I want to be happy, people say. Well, aren't they？ Don't we keep them moving, don't we give them fun？ That's all we live for, isn't it？ For pleasure, for titillation？ And you must admit our culture provides plenty of these."

　　quot;Coloured people don't like Little Black Sambo. Burn it. White people don't feel good about Uncle Tom's Cabin. Burn it. Someone's written a book on tobacco and cancer of the lungs？ The cigarette people are weeping？ Bum the book. Serenity, Montag. Peace, Montag. Take your fight outside. Better yet, into the incinerator. Funerals are unhappy and pagan？ Eliminate them, too. Five minutes after a person is dead he's on his way to the Big Flue, the Incinerators serviced by helicopters all over the country. Ten minutes after death a man's a speck of black dust. Let's not quibble over individuals with memoriams. Forget them. Burn them all, burn everything. Fire is bright and fire is clean."

　　【三】

　　quot;There was a girl next door," he said, slowly. "She's gone now, I think, dead. I can't even remember her face. But she was different. How？ How did she happen？" Beatty smiled. "Here or there, that's bound to occur. Clarisse McClellan？ We've a record on her family. We've watched them carefully. Heredity and environment are funny things. You can't rid yourselves of all the odd ducks in just a few years. The home environment can undo a lot you try to do at school. That's why we've lowered the kindergarten age year after year until now we're almost snatching them from the cradle. We had some false alarms on the McClellans, when they lived in Chicago. Never found a book. Uncle had a mixed record; anti-social. The girl？ She was a time bomb. The family had been feeding her subconscious, I'm sure, from what I saw of her school record. She didn't want to know how a thing was done, but why. That can be embarrassing. You ask Why to a lot of things and you wind up very unhappy indeed, if you keep at it. The poor girl's better off dead."

　　quot;Yes, dead."

　　quot;Luckily, queer ones like her don't happen, often. We know how to nip most of them in the bud, early. You can't build a house without nails and wood. If you don't want a house built, hide the nails and wood. If you don't want a man unhappy politically, don't give him two sides to a question to worry him; give him one. Better yet, give him none. Let him forget there is such a thing as war. If the Government is inefficient, top-heavy, and tax-mad, better it be all those than that people worry over it. Peace, Montag. Give the people contests they win by remembering the words to more popular songs or the names of state capitals or how much corn Iowa grew last year. Cram them full of non-combustible data, chock them so damned full of 'facts' they feel stuffed, but absolutely `brilliant' with information. Then they'll feel they're thinking, they'll get a sense of motion without moving. And they'll be happy, because facts of that sort don't change. Don't give them any slippery stuff like philosophy or sociology to tie things up with. That way lies melancholy. Any man who can take a TV wall apart and put it back together again, and most men can nowadays, is happier than any man who tries to slide-rule, measure, and equate the universe, which just won't be measured or equated without making man feel bestial and lonely. I know, I've tried it; to hell with it. So bring on your clubs and parties, your acrobats and magicians, your dare-devils, jet cars, motor-cycle helicopters, your sex and heroin, more of everything to do with automatic reflex. If the drama is bad, if the film says nothing, if the play is hollow, sting me with the theremin, loudly. I'll think I'm responding to the play, when it's only a tactile reaction to vibration. But I don't care. I just like solid entertainment."...Beatty got up. "I must be going. Lecture's over. I hope I've clarified things. The important thing for you to remember, Montag, is we're the Happiness Boys, the Dixie Duo, you and I and the others. We stand against the small tide of those who want to make everyone unhappy with conflicting theory and thought. We have our fingers in the dyke. Hold steady. Don't let the torrent of melancholy and drear philosophy drown our world. We depend on you. I don't think you realize how important you are, to our happy world as it stands now."

　　【四】

　　Faber examined Montag's thin, blue-jowled face. "How did you get shaken up？ What knocked the torch out of your hands？"

　　quot;I don't know. We have everything we need to be happy, but we aren't happy. Something's missing. I looked around. The only thing I positively knew was gone was the books I'd burned in ten or twelve years. So I thought books might help."

　　quot;You're a hopeless romantic," said Faber. "It would be funny if it were not serious. It's not books you need, it's some of the things that once were in books. The same things could be in the `parlour families' today. The same infinite detail and awareness could be projected through the radios and televisors, but are not. No, no, it's not books at all you're looking for! Take it where you can find it, in old phonograph records, old motion pictures, and in old friends; look for it in nature and look for it in yourself. Books were only one type of receptacle where we stored a lot of things we were afraid we might forget. There is nothing magical in them at all. The magic is only in what books say, how they stitched the patches of the universe together into one garment for us. Of course you couldn't know this, of course you still can't understand what I mean when I say all this. You are intuitively right, that's what counts. Three things are missing.

　　quot;Number one: Do you know why books such as this are so important？ Because they have quality. And what does the word quality mean？ To me it means texture. This book has pores. It has features. This book can go under the microscope. You'd find life under the glass, streaming past in infinite profusion. The more pores, the more truthfully recorded details of life per square inch you can get on a sheet of paper, the more `literary' you are. That's my definition, anyway. Telling detail. Fresh detail. The good writers touch life often. The mediocre ones run a quick hand over her. The bad ones rape her and leave her for the flies.

　　quot;So now do you see why books are hated and feared？ They show the pores in the face of life. The comfortable people want only wax moon faces, poreless, hairless, expressionless. We are living in a time when flowers are trying to live on flowers, instead of growing on good rain and black loam. Even fireworks, for all their prettiness, come from the chemistry of the earth. Yet somehow we think we can grow, feeding on flowers and fireworks, without completing the cycle back to reality. Do you know the legend of Hercules and Antaeus, the giant wrestler, whose strength was incredible so long as he stood firmly on the earth. But when he was held, rootless, in mid-air, by Hercules, he perished easily. If there isn't something in that legend for us today, in this city, in our time, then I am completely insane. Well, there we have the first thing I said we needed. Quality, texture of information."

　　quot;And the second？"

　　quot;Leisure."

　　quot;Oh, but we've plenty of off-hours."

　　quot;Off-hours, yes. But time to think？ If you're not driving a hundred miles an hour, at a clip where you can't think of anything else but the danger, then you're playing some game or sitting in some room where you can't argue with the fourwall televisor. Why？ The televisor is 'real.' It is immediate, it has dimension. It tells you what to think and blasts it in. It must be, right. It seems so right. It rushes you on so quickly to its own conclusions your mind hasn't time to protest, 'What nonsense!'"

　　quot;Only the 'family' is 'people.'"

　　quot;I beg your pardon？"

　　quot;My wife says books aren't 'real.'"

　　quot;Thank God for that. You can shut them, say, 'Hold on a moment.' You play God to it. But who has ever torn himself from the claw that encloses you when you drop a seed in a TV parlour？ It grows you any shape it wishes! It is an environment as real as the world. It becomes and is the truth. Books can be beaten down with reason. But with all my knowledge and scepticism, I have never been able to argue with a one hundred-piece symphony orchestra, full colour, three dimensions, and I being in and part of those incredible parlours. As you see, my parlour is nothing but four plaster walls. And here " He held out two small rubber plugs. "For my ears when I ride the subway-jets."

　　quot;Denham's Dentifrice; they toil not, neither do they spin," said Montag, eyes shut.

　　quot;Where do we go from here？ Would books help us？"

　　quot;Only if the third necessary thing could be given us. Number one, as I said, quality of information. Number two: leisure to digest it. And number three: the right to carry out actions based on what we learn from the inter-action of the first two. And I hardly think a very old man and a fireman turned sour could do much this late in the game..."

　　quot;I can get books."

　　quot;You're running a risk."

　　quot;That's the good part of dying; when you've nothing to lose, you run any risk you want."

　　quot;There, you've said an interesting thing," laughed Faber, "without having read it!"

　　quot;Are things like that in books. But it came off the top of my mind!"

　　quot;All the better. You didn't fancy it up for me or anyone, even yourself."

　　【五】

　　quot;Thousands on the roads, the abandoned railtracks, tonight, bums on the outside, libraries inside. It wasn't planned, at first. Each man had a book he wanted to remember, and did. Then, over a period of twenty years or so, we met each other, travelling, and got the loose network together and set out a plan. The most important single thing we had to pound into ourselves was that we were not important, we mustn't be pedants; we were not to feel superior to anyone else in the world. We're nothing more than dust-jackets for books, of no significance otherwise. Some of us live in small towns. Chapter One of Thoreau's Walden in Green River, Chapter Two in Willow Farm, Maine. Why, there's one town in Maryland, only twenty-seven people, no bomb'll ever touch that town, is the complete essays of a man named Bertrand Russell. Pick up that town, almost, and flip the pages, so many pages to a person. And when the war's over, some day, some year, the books can be written again, the people will be called in, one by one, to recite what they know and we'll set it up in type until another Dark Age, when we might have to do the whole damn thing over again. But that's the wonderful thing about man; he never gets so discouraged or disgusted that he gives up doing it all over again, because he knows very well it is important and worth the doing."