“It was a pleasure to burn. It was a special pleasure to see things eaten, to see things blackened and changed. With the brass nozzle in his fists, with this great python spitting its venomous kerosene upon the world, the blood pounded in his head, and his hands were the hands of some amazing conductor playing all the symphonies of blazing and burning to bring down the tatters and charcoal ruins of history. With his symbolic helmet numbered 451 on his stolid head, his eyes all orange flame with the thought of what came next, he flicked the igniter and the house jumped up in a gorging fire that burned the evening sky red and yellow and black.”
Burning was a pleasure. My first thoughts about this book were that it was about someone with a fascination to pyromania. A story about fire perhaps? I imagine a time and place where our current view of life has been turned upside down. Books that were once cherished and collected now hunted and burned from existence. The pleasure that comes from being a fireman. A new meaning. Instead saving homes from fires, you burn them to the ground with everything inside beit books or the people foolish enough to stay inside. The power behind the kerosene hose, the warmth of the blaze, the reflection of the fire in your eyes.