Book: 451 degrees Fahrenheit. Page 4

When I was a boy my grandfather died, he was a sculptor. He was a very kind person, loved people, he helped to clean our city from the slums. To us kids he was making a toy for his life, he must have created a million different things. His hands were always busy with something. And when he died, I suddenly realized I wasn't crying about him, but about the things that he did. I was crying because I knew all of those things, grandpa will not be able to carve figurines from wood, to breed with us pigeons in the back yard to play the violin or to tell us funny stories - no one knew how to tell them how he is. He was a part of us, and when he died, they are gone from our lives: there is no one left who could do it like he did. It was very special, anyone not like. Very necessary for the life of the people. I have not come to terms with his death. I often wonder what beautiful works of art lost to the world because of his death, many funny stories were left untold, how many pigeons return home, they will not feel the gentle touch of his hands. He shaped the world. He gave the world a new. That night, when he died, the world was bankrupted of ten million fine actions.