dieinflames._800字

　　　　 “There is more than one way to burn a book, and the world is full of people running about with lit matches.” ——Ray Bradbury.　　 　　 Every person is a book. They have their cover, fancy or simple. They have their innermost feelings. They have their own theme and point of view. They’re often designed with a certain political or personal purpose. They quietly sit themselves on a shelf, among all the others, waiting for someone to walk in, find them and take them back, make use out of them, and hear what they have to say.　　　　　 But it is always the ones with fanciest covers get picked first. And those books have to have opinions that suit the majority of their selectors.　　 For instance, in Japan, there would not be books about the rape of Nanking. In America, people wouldn’t like to read how the military killed innocent Iraqis. 　　　　 No book can be itself without offending someone at some certain locations or backgrounds. So in order to survive, books have to avoid hurting people’s feelings. Books have to adjust themselves or change themselves to fit the surroundings. This is just like Darwin’s theory of natural selection. The strongest or the species in favor lives. And in the end, all books will look the same. With the same cover, same point of view just to avoid offending someone. And readers will not be able to get anything out of it, so no one would bother to read books anymore.　 　　　　 “Colored 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 lungs? The cigarette people are weeping? Burn the book…Forget them. Burn all, burn everything. Fire is bright and fire is clean. ”　　　　 Yes, burning is the solution to everything. Light it, watch it blacken with flames, and whish- it’s now a pile of dust. Meaning less. Completely harmless. And the world is clean; everything nasty had been burned out, no one will talk ill or think ill about their society and the people around them. Fire is magical!　　　　　But what’s left? A pile of nasty dust that was created by our own hands and were destroyed by us, too. Spiritless, soulless bodies walking on the street.　　　　 And these people never knew one thing.　　　　 They died very long time ago, among with their books.