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It Was a Pleasure to Burn
It was a special pleasure to see things eaten, to see things blackened and changed. With thebrass nozzle in his fists, with this great python spitting its venomous kerosene upon theworld, the blood pounded in his head, and his hands were the hands of some amazingconductor playing all the symphonies of blazing and burning to bring down the tatters andcharcoal ruins of history. With his symbolic helmet numbered 451 on his stolid head, and hiseyes all orange flame with the thought of what came next, he flicked the igniter and the housejumped up in a gorging fire that burned the evening sky red and yellow and black. He strodein a swarm of fireflies. He wanted above all, like the old joke, to shove a marshmallow on astick in the furnace, while the flapping pigeon-winged books died on the porch and lawn ofthe house. While the books went up in sparkling whirls and blew away on a wind turned darkwith burning.