He knew that when he returned to the firehouse, he might wink at himself, a
minstrel man, burnt-corked, in the mirror. Later, going to sleep, he would feel the
fiery smile still gripped by his face muscles, in the dark. It never went away, that
smile, it never ever went away, as long as he remembered.
------------------------
He glanced back at the wall. How like a mirror, too, her face. Impossible; for
how many people did you know that refracted your own light to you? People were
more often—he searched for a simile, found one in his work—torches, blazing
away until they whiffed out. How rarely did other people’s faces take of you and
throw back to you your own expression, your own innermost trembling thought?
Montag looked at these men whose faces were sunburnt by a thousand real
and ten thousand imaginary fires, whose work flushed their cheeks and fevered
their eyes. These men who looked steadily into their platinum igniter flames as
they lit their eternally burning black pipes. They and their charcoal hair and sootcolored brows and bluish-ash-smeared cheeks where they had shaven close; but
their heritage showed. Montag started up, his mouth opened. Had he ever seen a
fireman that didn’t have black hair, black brows, a fiery face, and a blue-steel
shaved but unshaved look? These men were all mirror images of himself! Were all
firemen picked then for their looks as well as their proclivities? The color of
cinders and ash about them, and the continual smell of burning from their pipes.