New Ray Bradbury Review #3

THE NEWRAY BRADBURY

REVIEW

Number 3 (2012)

Edited by William F. Touponce

Published by The Kent State University Press

Editor: William F. TouponceProduction Editor: David E. Spiech

Published by The Kent State University Press

The New Ray BRadBuRy Review

RAY BRADBURY STUD

IES

THE CENTER FOR

CRBS

Number 1 (2008)

EDITORIAL ADVISORY BOARD

Donn Albright Pratt Institute

Jonathan R. Eller Indiana University

Sarah Lawall University of Massachusetts

Phil Nichols University of Wolverhampton

THE NEW RAY BRADBURY REVIEWNumber 3 (2012)

CONTENTS

In Memoriam: Ray Bradbury william f. touponce 7

I Am My Grandfather, My Grandfather Is Me ray bradbury 9

Introduction william f. touponce 10

From the Archives: A Selection of Ray Bradbury’s Fragments edited with commentary by william f. touponcePart One: Youth, Old Age, and Death 1. When The Weeping Stopped 16 2. The One Who Fell 18 3. That’s How Death Is 18 4. All Good Things Are Over 19 Figure One—Grammy 20

Part Two: Other Writers 1. We have Art that we may not perish from Truth 21 2. The Menacing Martians in Oz 21 3. Edith Wharton 22

Part Three: Characters 1. Darkside’s Folly 24 2. The Magician 25 3. I heard them all laughing 25 4. The All Hallows Family 26 5. The Acid Clean Man 26

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6. The Bed in the Center of the Room 27 7. The Saved Sadness 27 8. The Jigsaw 27 9. The Colored Shoe Man 28 10. The Scissors Grinder 28 Figure Two—The Medicine Show 30

Part Four: Reveries 1. Fire is baroque 31 2. The Burnt People 32 3. The steadfast sea 32 4. When the sound of the sea and the smell of the sea/Come in 33 5. At night the wind plunged through the house 33 6. The wind all around 33 7. To Make the Unfamiliar Familiar 34 8. To lie upon the dusty nap of the rug 34 9. Green Afternoon 34 10. It was a melon patch 35 11. “It is a clear cool morning” 35 12. In the window of the candy store 36 13. He lived in an element of mud 36 14. To watch the great round mouths turning 36 15. The Playground 37 16. The Different Pat 37 Figure Three—Where the cool, cold smell of water came up 38

Part Five: Dreams 1. The Monk, The Monk 39 2. Summer Night in the Courthouse Square 39 3. “What’s it get a woman?” 40 4. The Dream 41

Part Six: Houses 1. The Cellar, The Attic, The Pantry 43 2. Very early that morning 43 3. Long After Midnight 44 4. The Boarding House 44 5. The house drifted with dust 45 6. The house was a good house 45 7. In other parts of the house 45 8. Until this day, how well the house had kept its peace 46

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9. The House of Sighs 46 10. The town was a beautiful ruin of a place 47

Part Seven: Climates/Seasons 1. In the yard the three apple trees grew up 48 2. On those clean spring days 49 3. The Herb Forest 49 4. It was one of the early Sunday afternoons in fall 49 5. She woke on a winter’s morning 50

Part Eight: Space Travel/Other Worlds 1. The New Crusade 51 2. The rocket was a silver thimble 51 3. Thistle-down and Fire 52 4. They spoke of the spaces between the stars 52 5. The Long Midnight 53 6. It is not nice to spill down space 53 7. Longfall 53 8. The Witch 54 9. The Venusian Chronicles (Prelude/Chapter One/The Gardener/ The Umbrella Man) 54 10. The carnival was set up and ready to go 55

Part Nine: Mars 1. He felt it when they came from the rocket 56 2. The berries were ripened 57 3. The Children 57 4. Many nights he could hear the voice calling to him 57 5. “Come down, come down!” 58 6. The robot 58 7.“What is it?” 59 8. The Comedians 59 9. The Carnival arrived about seven that night 60 10. The Duplicate Circus 61 Figure Four—The Fourth of July 62

Textual Commentary william f. touponce 63

The Albright Collection: Bradbury Story Fragments donn albright, jon eller and diana dial reynolds 85

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Copyright © 2012 by The Center for Ray Bradbury Studies

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or re-views. Address permissions requests to: The Kent State University Press, Attn: Rights and Permissions, PO Box 5190, Kent, OH 44242-0001.

Story fragments are © 2012 by Ray Bradbury and are reprinted with permission of Ray Bradbury and Don Congdon Associates, Inc. They may not be adapted, quoted, copied, stored, or published in any format without the permission of the author and his agents.

isbn 978-1-60635-147-5Manufactured in the United States of America

To order call 419-281-1802 or order online at www.kentstateuniversitypress.com.

The New Ray Bradbury Review is edited by William F. Touponce at The Center for Ray Bradbury Studies, Institute for American Thought, Indiana University–Purdue University Indianapolis, 902 E. New York Street, ES 0010, Indianapolis, Indiana 46202, and published periodically by The Kent State University Press, Kent, Ohio 44242. The Center for Ray Bradbury Studies accepts no responsibility for statements of fact or opinion made by contributors.

Send inquiries and submissions to the Jonathan Eller, Director, The Center for Ray Bradbury Studies at [email protected]. Submissions to The New Ray Bradbury Review should be typed and double-spaced in 12-point Times on letter-sized paper. Electronic submissions on disk or via e-mail must be in Microsoft Word. If photographs, diagrams, or other graphic material accompany the document, include each in a file separate from the text or send them as individual e-mail attachments. Scanned greyscale images must be in TIFF format at 300 dpi or higher resolution; line images should be in TIFF format at 1200 dpi or higher resolution. Any material owned by third parties must be accompanied by complete copy-right information for proper acknowledgment. Authors are required to obtain written permission from the rights holder(s) of such material submitted for inclusion in The New Ray Bradbury Review.

In Memoriam: Ray Bradbury22 AUgUST 1920–5 JUNE 2012

In the 1950s, when he first became influential and widely known in America and in Europe, Ray Bradbury believed that we now live in an Age of Information, where facts replace facts at an alarming speed in our minds, destroying the roots of any co-herent experience. Experience itself, he felt, had been narrowed down by our techno-logical civilization to what was thought important: scientific knowledge expressed in facts. People no longer had or took the time to find original metaphors—their own or discovered in the writings of others—to express their inner emotional lives, which were largely being replaced by the products of the entertainment industry. They felt no need for authentic poetry. This in summary is the dire situation to be found in Fahrenheit 451 (1953), Brad-bury’s most famous book, which he insisted is not really about censorship at all but rather about the effects of mass culture (i.e., television) on people. At several points in the story, Bradbury evokes a pervasive melancholy among the citizens of this future world (interpreted in Truffaut’s 1966 film as a kind of narcissism). People no longer seem capable of experiencing anything deeply. In the opening pages, Montag is given a dandelion test by his teenage neighbor, Clarisse, to see if he is in love. He’s not. The turning point of the book comes about when Montag the fireman, in an open act of rebellion, switches off the wall-sized telescreen and reads from Matthew Arnold’s “Dover Beach” to a group of numb people, who suddenly, because of the effect of the poem’s powerful figurations of war, ignorant armies, and the melancholy withdrawal of faith and love from the world, begin to remember their feelings and their pain, and a bit of the trauma of their recent history (since Bradbury so thor-oughly personifies books in Fahrenheit 451, the burning of books can be understood as a holocaust). Bradbury obviously felt that there was something important for our survival as human beings in the slow reading of books, and in examining an author’s unique figures of expression. In one way or another, in everything he wrote, in whatever genre he wrote in, from The Martian Chronicles to Dandelion Wine and especially in his many story collections, Bradbury engaged in an attempt to recover and to preserve some of the richness of human experience. He sought to broaden and indeed reinvent the wonder and terror of modern experience in an age that sought to narrow it. In the introduction to his own collection of modern fantasy, Timeless Stories for Today and Tomorrow (1952), Bradbury characterized himself simply as an “emotionalist,” unfor-tunately risking being misunderstood as an anti-intellectual. Later on in his career, he described himself as a storyteller who wrote fairy tales about the modern world,

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which is a closer formulation of his talent and lyrical appeal. But I think that these two self-descriptions taken together provide a clear indication of what Bradbury’s leg-acy is and will continue to be. Bradbury has written hundreds of emotionally charged stories that give a shape and a name to feelings that are on the wane, feelings that go much deeper and are much more nuanced than simple nostalgia and sentimentality, of which he is sometimes accused. Consider “Hail and Farewell” (collected in The Golden Apples of the Sun), which is among my personal favorites. It tells of a young boy of twelve who is immortal and never ages in appearance, of his moving on from town to town and from family to family where there is a need for a child, until the unsuspecting parents discover his true nature and he must move on again. The story deals with the emotional problems of containing the old man of experience within the young boy’s body, and with the difficulty of always having to make an end of hap-piness and then to begin again somewhere else, somewhere new. This particular story alludes not to the common dandelion but to Wordsworth’s poem about the daffodils as a metaphor for the paradoxes of innocence and experience. One can take this story to be a kind of parable indicating how Bradbury’s sto-ries in general will travel and survive. Living on throughout the world in whatever language they are encountered, they will help people give a shape and a name to the finer emotions that are disappearing in the continuing crisis of experience. In moder-nity there is no permanent happiness or sadness, the story reveals, but there may be a certain immortality to be found in the aesthetic moment. That is beautifully done, Mr. Bradbury. Hail and Farewell.

William F. Touponce

8 in memoriam: ray bradbury

I Am My grandfather, My grandfather Is MeRAY BRADBURY

When I was born, I remember being born. But my grandfather was there, and he knew that, later on, I would remember being born. So he started to develop me when I was two years old. He sat me on his knee and he put a little crystal radio in my hand. A little crystal radio, with a little spool of copper wire, and you tickled it with a needle; he had earplugs in my ears, and I could hear music a thousand miles away. That was in the middle of 1922, when radio was invented. There were no networks, there were no voices, only music from two thousand miles away. But he put me in touch with the invention of radio. That was when I was two, and the next year, when I was three, he told me to run across the street with a big gunny sack and fill it with dandelions, and bring it back to the base-ment. He poured them in the wine press, and he said, “Press down on the dandelions, and help me make dandelion wine.” So he taught me how to help make dandelion wine. And when I was three, he gave me a stereoscope and he sat me on the floor so I could look at the double images of the St. Louis Fair in 1904, and the Columbian Exposition of 1892 in Chicago, and I fell in love with architecture. He was preparing me for the future of architecture. I didn’t know that. But I fell in love with the look of World’s Fairs, and he gave me a thousand photographs to look at, sitting on the floor of his parlor. That was when I was three. And then, when I was four, he gave me twelve issues of Harper’s Weekly magazine, which came out in 1899, with the beautiful pictures of H. G. Wells’s [When the Sleep-er Wakes, illustrated by Henri Lanos]. He showed me those, and I learned to read [later] that year, when I was five years old. It wasn’t so much that I was reading, but looking at those pictures caused me to believe in the future. I fell in love with those images, and so at the end of his last year, his last Fourth of July, he had me out in the front yard and we built a fire balloon, and he sent it away into the air, and I saw the Fourth of July going off forever. And I stood there crying with my grandfather, because I thought that the Fourth of July might never come back. So all these things he taught me. The invention of radio, how to make dandelion wine, how to look at world’s fairs, how to fall in love with the future through im-ages, and how to begin to read H. G. Wells. And then he died that year; I remember visiting him upstairs, in my grandfather’s house, and talking to him. He was lying in bed, dying, but I remembered to say farewell to him. But I didn’t know at the time how much he had put of his soul into my soul. And I still feel the same way. I am my grandfather, and my grandfather is me.

September 2010From an interview with Sam Weller

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IntroductionEDITINg BRADBURY’S FRAgMENTS

A theory of the work does not exist, and the empirical task of those who naively undertake the editing of works often suffers in the absence of such a theory. —Michel Foucault, “What is an Author?

Welcome to the third issue of The New Ray Bradbury Review. This archival issue presents some of Bradbury’s incomplete writings, consisting mainly of his story openings and narrative ideas, as well as descriptive passages on a variety of themes, together with an interpretative commentary. Basically, my approach to selecting and arranging Bradbury’s fragments is focused on documenting his creative process. We do know with some certainly that from the age of eighteen when he first read Dorothea Brande’s Becoming a Writer, Bradbury worked with a very definite aesthetic method in mind that guided his writing pro-cess. Brande’s book provided Bradbury with advice and exercises designed to activate subconscious archetypes that would guide his daydreaming mind. Based on poetic reverie, this aesthetic has permeated Bradbury’s writings with many expressive imag-es and themes that reverberate and recur throughout his universe, creating a certain depth and ‘cosmic’ quality to his oeuvre. I studied these cosmic reveries at length in my Ray Bradbury and the Poetics of Reverie (1981). Reverie became the characteristic way in which he opened his stories for over half a century. I have tried to point out Bradbury’s widespread use of reverie in these fragments in the textual commentary.1 When we look at unpublished stories completed by Bradbury that have recently come to light, they often read almost as if they were intended to be allegories of this highly subjective and image saturated writing process. Written early in his career is “The Meteors,” a space allegory dating from 1942. In it Bradbury personifies two metal meteors, one male and the other female, dramatizing their efforts to come to terms with the consciousness of death and the universal force of gravity. Out of a deathlike universe comes conscious matter that wants to know itself and the uni-verse. It would be hard to find a better exemplar of the cretive process of reverie even among Bradbury’s published writings. This particular story survived fragmentation (though the meteors in the story do not) and has reached us as a complete whole. It is discussed in my appendix to The Collected Stories of Ray Bradbury (1938–1943) where it creates a momentary center of interest in Bradbury’s cosmological reveries. Of course, reverie allowed Bradbury, as he developed as a writer and became more knowledgeable, to borrow and transform

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introduction 11

archetypal images and themes from the larger system of literature itself. Bradbury’s later works are often traversed by comets whose tails are made up of the cultural debris of many other admired writers. In the last issue of this journal I explored the effect of Bradbury’s reading of Melville’s Moby-Dick on the composition of his Levia-than ’99, where cosmic reverie and intertextuality are practically the same thing. Thus in editing this volume, and in considering the difficult question of what works by Bradbury might here be presented, inadvertently or otherwise, I found it appealing to consider what Jerome McGann suggests as the basis for a new understanding of authorship allowing the editor to create his own center of interest (McGann’s multi-centered universe idea is also at the heart of the critical introduction I wrote for Ray Bradbury: The Life of Fiction).2 Traditionally editors have looked at the author and his works as a kind of textual solar system. At the center would be Bradbury, the sun, the authorial source and center of all meaning. Around him would range the planets, both large and small, various and beautiful, representing his major works. The study of fragments, however, would seem to perturb this model with some radical decenter-ing effects. After all, fragments are by definition not whole works. Consider however the nearest celestial approximation to textual fragments: the as-teroid belt, the source of meteors that reach us here on earth, a vast band of planetoids (they are not really stars) occupying the space between Mars and Jupiter. However this belt may have been formed—one scientific theory has it that the asteroids are the remains of a planet which did not form or which was torn apart by gravitational forces—it nonetheless offers us a useful literary analogy. For just so Bradbury, a pro-lific writer, has left behind many openings for stories that he never finished, together with pages of notes, sketches and drafts that he was keeping in suspension for possible use in some form at some place in various narrative projects he was considering. They are of great interest to anyone drawn to the study of Bradbury’s creative mind, for they reveal his imagination at its most spontaneous. In some instances Bradbury made a second pass and corrected some wordings, but in general these fragments represent an opportunity to grasp the dynamic literary image as it freshly appeared in Bradbury’s consciousness, when it still could be said to have multiple artistic possibilities. On the textual side of things, I should indicate that well into the 1950’s Bradbury kept title logs of his many on-going story ideas. Some fragments can be dated pre-cisely from these logs. Strictly speaking these pages are not fragments, but parts of an unformed whole.3 Most of the fragments in this volume are of this type and date from the mid 1940’s to the mid 1950’s. The reader of Bradbury’s most famous works will be excited to discover here ten previously unpublished fragments loosely tied to his science-fictional masterwork, The Martian Chronicles (1950). Bradbury’s 1953 sketches for “The Venusian Chronicles,” a work in progress that was previously com-pletely unknown, also fall clearly into this textual category (08/09).4 Not a piece of a lost literary planet, but one that never entirely formed in Bradbury’s solar system,

12 the new ray bradbury review

these fragmentary pages reveal a landscape and characters that, while clearly incom-plete, carry on the themes of The Martian Chronicles. Unfortunately, many more story idea titles exist than can be found fragments for, a situation that constitutes another level of incompleteness. Bradbury kept detailed lists of story titles with word counts and these are of some help in identifying the fragments, but they stop at the end of 1945 (sales logs stop in 1949). Another source of information is the 20 or 30 surviving tentative story collection lists, including proposed contents, but some of those story titles are not recognizable stories today. Thanks to the on-going decoding efforts of Jonathan R. Eller and Donn Albright, these preliminary titles may turn out to be actual unpublished or published stories, but the best guess seems to be that there are a few that may represent stories we don’t have anymore. A few pages from these stories may survive however. If indentified, these will be included in the next volume.5 Although generally I have wanted to present previously unknown materials, I have also included some pages that are clearly drafts of what later became Bradbury’s most famous stories. A fragment of “The Wind,” which is probably the original story open-ing, survives, and indicates how much Bradbury changed this story (04/06). The description of the automatic house that survives a nuclear holocaust in “There Will Come Soft Rains,” went through several stages of revision. The house is subtly differ-ent in each version, and is personified as almost a lover in its earlier version (06/08). A third aesthetic category of incompleteness can be formed around fragments that paradoxically manage to seem complete. Bradbury’s sense of romantic nostalgia is so strong that a poetic description a fragmentary reverie can provide a sense of whole-ness. In this category we can locate Bradbury’s many reveries of inhabiting houses, constituting one of the largest groupings in the volume. I am not suggesting that Bradbury used the fragment deliberately as tool to reveal his work as being constant-ly in process, in the fashion of certain modernist writers (see discussion in Deleuze, 131), or that he wrote aphorisms, though 04/07 is clearly one which revisits one of the central tropes of modernity, the making strange of human relatedness (Nochlin, 45). Some of these fragments can be observed to display qualities associated with modernist literary genres, especially the prose poem (04/01 is a good example). Still others seem to offer us a non-unified totality, or fetish, designed to set in motion our own imaginative capacities (Nochlin, 56). “ Section 05, “Dreams,” contains several examples of this mode of writing that uses fragmentary images and voices as objects to awaken unconscious fantasy. These then are the aesthetic categories of incompleteness that can be discerned in Bradbury’s fragments. Although in most cases there is no completed work that we can speak of, I have organized this volume with the assumption that, if not a logos gathering up all these pieces, there is a network of images and themes expressed in Bradbury’s published and unpublished works considered as a totality, that helps us

introduction 13

organize and study his fragments. Organizing by theme and image will I hope coun-teract the decentering process of fragmentation. For this volume and the next I read over 700 pages of Bradbury’s fragments and organized them into thematic categories (not all categories appear in this volume) that seem to perfuse Bradbury’s fictional worlds. In music, a theme is by definition something that repeats. Very quickly the fragments, however widely dispersed in time, however contingently and variously produced, and whatever category of textual in-completeness they might fall into, began to form definite thematic groupings. For in-stance, I discovered many fragments relating to characters and how we imagine them. Another large folder was eventually made up of reveries of the elements of earth, air, fire, and water. Climates, seasons and landscapes made yet another grouping, and so on, each folder providing a glimpse of how a favored theme recurred over the years. Within each thematic grouping one can detect variations. I have made a selection of these variations and arranged them in ways that I hope will engage readers of this volume in the deeper understanding of Bradbury’s aesthetic in new ways. For ease of reading, I have presented Bradbury’s fragments unencumbered and without a textual apparatus so that they can be read initially without any interpretive commentary. The alternative is to surround Bradbury’s fragmentary texts with commentary or to embed them in the commentary itself, which I find aesthetically unacceptable. Even as frag-ments, and as documents of Bradbury’s imagination, they have an imaginative integrity that I feel needs to be preserved. However, the reader should be aware of the subtle effect that the very act of printing can create, lending clarity and accessibility to a frag-ment, and giving the illusion of a finished text, indeed suggesting more conscious in-tention than was actually present in the fragments themselves. Whatever view of the literary work one may finally have—and the history of literary discourse seems to forbid any closure on the subject—no such intentional object will be found in these pages. I would stress too that reverie is not so much a theme as the aesthetic mode of consciousness in which Bradbury typically composed. This means that all of Brad-bury’s themes should properly be imagined and explored in a corresponding readerly reverie (as I argued in my Ray Bradbury and The Poetics of Reverie) if we are to receive any benefit from them. In my opinion, Bradbury’s published writings speak to a pro-found need of the human imagination to take root in the world at a time when the imagination is under attack and disappearing from our scientific and technological culture. My readings in the fragments have only served to strengthen that opinion. I remain convinced also that only a slow deliberate reading of the sort practiced by Gaston Bachelard, one that interprets images through other images and not through concepts, can give the reader a chance to develop the potentialities of the literary image as we find it in Bradbury’s writings. Unfortunately, the scope of this volume forbids any detailed discussion of how the fragments affect our aesthetic sensibilities. I have however provided some remarks along these lines in the textual commentary.


Given that Bradbury’s literary DNA is tightly interwoven with multiple themes, it will be obvious that other arrangements of the same material are possible. Brad-bury’s use of reverie to define character subjectivity and gender difference (see “The Different Pat,” 04/16) means that such a fragment could also be put into the category of character. Indeed, it seems that Bradbury’s imagination is not confined to one of the elements and its attendant images, but extends itself to all of them, which is re-ally quite remarkable (see discussion in the textual commentary). I have also been concerned to document Bradbury’s imagination of women by placing, alongside those passages devoted to men, the dreams and nightmares of women. Though not a feminist, I think Bradbury has developed a deep sympathy for women (he has four daughters) and sees their domestic pleasures as a way in which they could resist a male dominated world. Otherwise, I have tried to give a representative sampling of the range of creative reverie in these fragments, but Bradbury’s use of reverie resists objective classification into one category.6 Obviously too, while I think that an aesthetic approach to editing Bradbury’s frag-ments is useful and valid, this approach does not obviate the need for responsible textual scholarship. I must thank Diana Dial Reynolds, my editorial associate on The Stories of Ray Bradbury, for handing the transcription duties on this volume. I have corrected misspellings silently, and generally followed a documentary style of editing and presenting the fragments. I have however kept most of Bradbury’s spelling and punctuation preferences to preserve his characteristically fluid way of expressing him-self in drafts. Where the manuscript provides a date of composition, I have included it. Some documentary style notation is used when Bradbury crossed out words and passages in revision, underlined, or introduced interlineations in the originals, but in general I have opted for a clear text style in presenting these fragments. The visual complexity of some of these manuscript pages—Bradbury was an in-veterate doodler and often mused about his story in the form of line drawings after he stopped typing—can be intriguing. I have included four figures in facsimile to illustrate the visual richness of these manuscript pages. Figure Three for instance con-tains a short paragraph about a boy’s summer reverie of himself reflected in the cool waters of a well. The boy calls out and hears echoes, and the water begins to move, but here the written passage ends. But Bradbury continued this archetypal reverie of Narcissus and Echo by drawing a Picasso-like figure with a eye crossed out. I am happy to include a preliminary catalog of Bradbury’s fragments compiled by Donn Albright, Jonathan R. Eller, and Diana Dial Reynolds, which provides a first finding list for this newest area of Bradbury’s solar system to be investigated. The reader should be aware however that the thematic folders I made up in preparing this volume draw upon the various contents of many different folders in the Albright collection and therefore do not correspond to this catalog. I wish to thank Donn Albright for allowing me access to his incredible collection of Bradbury materials, to Sam Weller for providing the biographical reminiscence of

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Bradbury’s grandfather that opens this volume, and to Jon Eller for encouragement and collegial support. For me, the pages herein—and I have chosen only a small fraction of what has now been catalogued—remain fragments within an ensemble of fragments. Bradbury himself had nothing to do with selecting and editing them. Read them then as spon-taneous outpourings from the creative mind of a writer at the height of his powers, one who had so many story ideas that he never got around to finishing them all. Enjoy!

William F. Touponce

Works Cited

Deleuze, Gilles. Translated by Richard Howard. Proust and Signs (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2000).

Nochlin, Linda. The Body in Pieces: The Fragment as a Metaphor of Modernity (London: Thames and Hudson, 1994).

Tronzo, William, Editor. The Fragment: An Incomplete History (Los Angeles: Getty Research Institute, 2009).

Notes

1. For a recent discussion see Jonathan R. Eller, Becoming Ray Bradbury (Urbana: Uni-versity of Illinois Press, 2011), pp. 60–62. Eller reveals that W. Somerset Maugham’s The Summing Up provided a sanction for the young writer to pursue his daydreams without fear of embarrassment. But despite his high praise for reverie, Maugham indicates that he himself was not the kind of writer to use it, so he cannot be a direct influence on Bradbury. Besides, Maugham provided no method to actively access the creative daydream, which is what Brande did offer him. 2. Jerome McGann, “The Socialization of Texts.” In The Book History Reader, edited by David Finkelstein and Alistair McCleery (London: Routledge, 2006), p. 68. 3. See discussion in “The Fragment: Elements of a Definition,” by Jacqueline Lichtenstein in William Tronzo, editor, The Fragment: An Incomplete History (Los Angeles: Getty Research Institute, 2009), p. 121. 4. The first number represents, here and in the textual commentary, the thematic folder and the second the fragment selection contained therein. 5. A much more poignant sense of loss is evoked by fragments that are “an index of some-thing missing” (Lichtenstein in Tronzo, 120). Here the fragment is a trace of a lost whole, of a totality. In this volume the only example of this type of fragment is 06/09, “The House of Sighs,” which is page from the chapter of a 1986 novel called “Falling Upwards.” 6. Bachelard thought that there was a complex Jungian interaction of anima and animus in reverie, and that reverie constituted a “poetics of androgyny.” See discussion in The Poetics of Reverie (Boston: Beacon Press, 1969), 83.


From the Archives: A Selection of Ray Bradbury’s FragmentsEDITED WITH COMMENTARY BY WILLIAM F. TOUpONCE

part OneYouth, Old Age, and Death

WHEN THE WEEpINg STOppED

a story by ray bradbury1*

One day the old man began to cry and then they knew that soon there would be a death that would end and life would begin, a glorious time. So they all went to the graveyard, weeping and took the coffin out of the earth and stopped crying because then there were the magic rituals at the hos-pital which caused the dead body to move and life began and went on forever. For here in this part of the retrograde universe death was always stopping and life was always beginning and going on forever. While in the other part of the universe, the reverse was true, people were born, grew old and died, and the weeping never stopped. Here the weeping was always stopping and death was ceasing and life went on and on forever and forever.

Come along and see! And at the far end of life, when you are very small, you go back to the

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*Reprinted with permission of Ray Bradbury and Don Congdon Associates, Inc. These excerpts may not be adapted, quoted, copied, stored, or published in any for-mat without the permission of the author and his agents. © 2012 by Ray Bradbury. All rights to these excerpts are reserved by Ray Bradbury.

youth, old age, and death 17

hospital again and find this woman that you vanish back into, cup in cup, cup in cup, down and down throughout the generations, and you are alive when you vanish into her and she stays alive with you in her and she gets smaller and smaller and vanishes into yet another woman, and how glorious it is, you see, don’t you agree, what a universe is this! What a gift of eternal life! And then what about all the things that die every day, every day hell every hour, every minute. We know it happens. We see it, we file and forget it. Or maybe it’s not truly forgotten but put away under a lot of other trapdoors. The dog opened one and there was a domino effect. Door after door after door flapped wide. And suddenly I remembered the million fellows that died today or in the last hour, all across the world. And the billion insects in the last hour, or the trillion bacteria in the last second. Every single damned moment of the day filled with destruction, corruption, even as every mo-ment is crammed with rebirth, flowering, seedtime, harvest time, funerals and celebrations on every hand, in confusions and repetitions. Silly all of it. Gross, brutal, terrible, wondrous fine. But, too much, too much, finally, to encompass. So we focus on a few deaths, a few births, or we’d go mad. It seems something in me has gone mad. It all floods back. Not just part, all. I am filled right now with a billion billion mortalities. Every dog I ever knew that’s now long gone. All the cats out under our lawn tonight, ghosts that want in and we can’t let them. All the ghosts of our living girls, our daughters, run-ning across that same lawn every Easter yelling with joy, shrieking with frustra-tion when one of them got too many eggs and the others found too few. And then there was a day in an old used book shop down by the sea I came upon some high school yearbooks from some strange school across country in 1934, 1926, 1905, my God, the years! but the terrible thing was, I knew all the faces, I knew them, Christ, I went to school with every face. The names were different, but it was the eyes, or something about the mouth, all those years back, that killed my soul. Who were those people, how many still alive, how many gone, it didn’t matter, they mattered to me, strangers each and ev-eryone, but friends. Their faces searched out of the book, asking for discovery, wanting to be remembered, hoping to live again. And I looked and this over-whelming sadness swept over me and my eyes blurred and I said to myself, to each and every one: yes, I remember you. And you, girl with the bow in your hair, and you, boy with the biceps and surly smile, and you football hero midfield in 1916, and you girl just back from the June prom, and you, and you. And I shut the book. It was like closing a great tomb. I heard a marble slab fall into place and echo. The echoes have been in me all those years. Last night, I heard the tomb open again, the book open, and all the faces on all the pages began to whisper. Christ. No wonder I can’t stop.


THE ONE WHO FELL

He was the one who fell. He lay outside the tent now where they had car-ried him and laid him out, long and quiet, and a doctor had come to listen to his chest for a moment but there was nothing to hear. Every one had gone away now, the acts were still performing inside; you could hear the music of the band. He lay with his hands half open as if he had given life away with them, as a gift. His eyes were closed and he looked very quiet. His body was still packed into his tight costume, but there was something wrong with it, the way it fitted bone to bone, now. It was somewhat unreal and distorted. Sometimes, when people came to look at him, he seemed like a pale image under water or something frozen in ice. He had been very good on the high trapeze. He had gone back and forth across the high lighted tent year after year and never faltered or slipped. But today he was the fallen one, the quiet one.

april 19th, 1955

THAT’S HOW DEATH IS.

You look around as you get off the block onto the horse and you can breathe the sky in through your nostrils it’s that clear and that good. It doesn’t matter that it’s blue—it’s wonderful—like being under water in a creek that’s run-ning fast and clear and cool over the stones and you’re one of the stones.^

In any event it is one of the perfect days when you can feel the rain deep down in the grass making it grow, when you can feel the gyroscope in your body tilting warmly this way and that, making balance between all attrac-tions, all gravities, moving you out of shadow and into sun and away from walls and sharp corners. Your hands, at your sides, can hold anything they touch and shape anything they hold. Your face is easy on its foundations, ready to become anything a friend, or even enemies want it to be. There will be no arguments today, no loud noises, no quick storms passing away to sul-len and dripping skies. The sun will be up all day and will spend more than its customary time at noon before drifting like a warm balloon, hushed and wondrous, toward the west. On the horse’s back you survey the Irish countryside, the last few shreds of mist, the dew in a great bright beaded scattering on the grass. And you start off at a walk with your horse into the field. And the horse stumbles and almost goes down. And death, quite suddenly, is there. That’s

youth, old age, and death 19

how death is, always somewhere. Always in the middle of the tapestry you’re working on this day or any day.

ALL gOOD THINgS ARE OVER

Have you ever noticed how all good things are over and past. All the good fine things are done. All the beautiful things are concluded and brought to a gentle halt. Why this should be there is no telling, save that we only know when a thing is good when it is through, and then it is too late. It is like a wine now in the digestive process that we have wanted to linger upon; how to recall and savor it? No way. We are lost. Memory fades. The good thing is beyond our power of reproduction. We are desolate. Perhaps it is just as well, for, knowing that this that or the other thing would be good, we might destroy it by loud smackings, by roiling of the tongue in our cheeks, by superhuman attempts to extract from it, all out of proportion to its ability to give, the sweet delights we seek, and in seeking, destroy. We cannot predict the flight of love, nor imagine that that which lies ten-derly in arm, in hand, will tomorrow dust away on the air. Sensing, might we not bruise the white fruit and set it into fermentation and destruction far sooner. Seizing, might we not break the fragile petals into soft ruin. Touching, might not the snow flake rain away into a tear upon the palm?

Figure One—Grammy

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part TwoOther Writers

We have Art that we may not perish from Truth.

So said Nietzsche.So say we all, if we have any sense.Yet everywhere, and especially in motion pictures, we are being treated to that inescapable perishment ^trauma^ supplied by vast overdosages of Truth. So dies our Civilization, made to sit in a corner, with dunce cap on, know-ing what is good for it, being poisoned day by day by the data collectors who stone us to death and wonder why we are ill, with pebbles, rocks, and gigantic boulders of realism. Smothered in the avalanche, we ^are tempted to^ give up the ghost of imagination and expire.

^Books—magazines—T.V.—radioToo much information!And too little to make it into metaphors we pass from hand to hand!^

THE MENACINg MARTIANS IN OZ

bradbury There came a time in OZ, as it must come to everyone everywhere, when life became a bore. “Not a small bore, said the Scarecrow, “but a large bore, with a capitol B.” “True”, said the Tin Woodman, “nothing ever happens. The villains and varlets have subsided. Peace and calm reign everywhere. Gone are the witches who threw us in ditches. I can no longer rust, since the invention of this fine

21


new oil which covers my body. Even if I lay in the rain for a thousand years, I would not fear rust. What a bore indeed. And you, Scarecrow, you are filled with non-combustible straw.” “True, I no longer fear matches, or for that matter, flame-throwers. I could walk on a bed of charcoals and not so much as smoke.”

1. Boredom.2. The Martians Land3. Tik-Tok is distributed over a thousand mile area.4. The Scarecrow is restuffed.5. The Tin Woodman is afflicted with Martian Rust.6. Polychrome is banished to Mars.7. The Martians invade Oz, on their way to conquering the world.8. The Wizard blows a fuse and his magic fails.9. Professor Wogglebug meets a Martian Scientist.10. Dorothy and Toro are lost in space.11. Ruggedo and Kiki plan to rescue Dorothy.12. The Search for Tik-Tok.13. The Dragons Meet.14.

Edith Wharton

1.Opened Edith Wharton’s book of Collected Stories. Leafed through to page 90 where I came upon her story SOULS BELATED.2.Read only the first paragraph: “Their railway carriage had been full when the train left Bologna; but at the first station beyond Milan their only remaining companion—a courtly person who ate garlic out of a carpet-bag—had left his crumb-strewn seat with a bow.”3.Which immediately made me think, remember: the day Maggie, the kids, Regina and I left Venice for Paris, on the Orient Express. At lunch, or din-ner, thinking: at this moment, my camera is being stolen. Going back to the compartment to find that, yes, indeed, the camera was stolen.4. which made me think that is a good start to a short story.5. next instantaneous thought—what if, a week later, in another Italian town,

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the same camera is offered for sale to its original owner, who seizes it, decries the bewildered thief, who flees, or is turned over to police.6. the next quick thought: the camera-owner, a writer, finds film still in the camera. Half the film, or a bit less, 6 to 8 pictures, are pictures of his wife, children.7. next thought: the other half of the pictures are ones taken, idly, by the thief, of his friends, his mother, uncle, sweetheart. They tell a tale of poverty and sadness.8. final thought, within one minute after having the very first flash above, reading Wharton—the author camera-owner either calls the police to have the man released. Or, if the thief had not been turned over to the police, goes in search of him to assuage his fear, buy him a drink. A hopeless search, of course, he knows he will not find the thief. But what would he ask him, if once confronting him. “The lovely young woman in the last picture . . . what . . . what is her name?”FINIS.Ideas occurred at nine thirty-five a.m. It is now [illeg strike out] nine forty-one, six minutes later, having put down all details above.The date is Saturday, October 22nd, 1960


part ThreeCharacters

Darkside’s Folly

chapter one.When the people in the town saw the men with the tape measures and string balls out in the green meadow on the hill just beyond the creek they did not think much on it.

And even when the rumor was confirmed that the land was bought and a house would be reared on it they did not guess that the day would soon come when they might name it Darkside’s Folly.For Darkside was the name of the man and he arrived by punctual train one twilight and his full name was William Fennel Darkside and he had with him a manservant to carry the great black leather bags, and they walked im-mediately up the road and pitched tent in the middle of the area strung off by white twine under a rising spring moon and had tea out there and biscuits by a small campfire and slept early, the tent dark, and spoke to no one in the town that first occasion. The tent, in the middle of the meadow, was very small and fair as compared to the great quake of house soon to rise out of the earth and shadow the hill.

And the town slept and the moon went down and the first night was over. . . . .

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characters 25

THE MAgICIAN

bradbury

He made the card appear, disappear, appear, disappear. He produced four aces, three queens, two kings, one jack and two jokers. Then he was tired and put the cards down. The train on which he sat roared through a green countryside taking him from one town where he did magic tricks to another where he did the same tricks again. He was a magician, well-known, well-attended, fairly wealthy, thirty-six years old, unmarried, and inclined toward philosophy, especially when the cards flickered in and out of existence be-tween his blurred fingertips, or when he made ghost lights shine inside his head, onstage, so he looked like a magnificently tall x-ray shadow looming up in a fount of steam and transfigured bone before his audience.

I heard them all laughing

I heard them all laughing their derisive, echoing laughter. The dark earth laughter of the coarse black cards, the flaming laughter of the fiery red cards; the diamonds, blunt clubs and the spades and the only ones that offered sur-cease from the howling madness of it were the hearts. And not even all of them would listen and understand. The Kings, for instance. The Kings of Hearts. They couldn’t side with me. After all I was encroaching upon unblasphemed, enholied soil. They were Kings and loved Queens; such it was with all royalty. And to think that a Joker— And the Jacks of Hearts. They were lovers, too, and all in all, looked at me suspiciously, though admiring my good-humored and well-played technique. They were after the queens, too, whenever the Kings were away. So I had stern walls to all directions. Three queens, four kings, and four Jacks, aligned with the aces and the tens. The other cards were little on one side or the other. They dared not mouth protest or mouth encouragement. They wished to remain on good terms with all. The hearts, of course, were my greatest allies. They knew their place, but still, from time to time, managed to reshuffle themselves to give me a better position toward winning Rena. One day, when the sun was bright, and the children had their jam-fin-gered, yelping way with us, I was laid out with Three-Spades by my side. He was festering in his usual melancholy, and his deep voice, like a dark well, was muttering.


THE ALL HALLOWS FAMILY

the hallowe’en Family.

THE OCTOBER FAMILY There they were, like a dark woods. Growing up black and thin and high through the house. The family. Like a collection of dark clocks in the living room, each keeping a different time. The family. Ten, twenty, thirty strong. From under bridges and from dank cellars and whistling attics. From webbed skies and October winds. The family, oh, the family!

“We shall form a corporation, why should we let this thing die out, it’s much too comfortable, too profitable. It’s so easy to keep the child fed, to nurse it into a monster,” said Rudolfo. He clasped his fat red hands on his knee. The others spiraled their eyes around at various parts of the dim room.

The Acid Clean Man

He was afraid the insects would climb up the posts of his bed, so he stood them in pots of kerosene. He was afraid they might crawl up the wall and jump upon the bed while he slept, so he moved the bed out to the center of the room. Then he washed the room from top to bottom, scouring and scrub-bing for three days with lysol and strong soap and buckets of water. He sang while he washed. He went out to lunch on Tuesday and the landlord came into the room for something or other and opened a window. “God damn it!” cried Mr. Knell. He slammed the window shut and almost wept. “Now I’ll have to start all over again. The room’s contaminated!” The landlord, at the door, said, “It just needed airing out, the smell, whew! It’s so strong in here!” Mr. Knell shook his fist. “Stay out of my room, don’t open my windows and let the insects in, damn you!” He got out his soap and water and la-boriously repeated his task of scrubbing the walls. The overhead chandelier, always a problem, he dismembered and laid in a corner. Too easy for insects, crawling on the ceilings, to leap off it, where it hung down like a pendulum dizzily frozen over his bed. The landlord complained. To hell with him. Now it was almost ready, his room. He took a bath himself, sent all of his clothes out to the cleaners. Lived naked in his room for two days, under two clean sheets, while everything was tumbled and cleansed at the washerman’s.

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THE BED IN THE CENTER OF THE ROOM

There was a small carefully made bed in the very center of the room. That was the aspect which immediately gave one notice when she opened the door. Over her shoulder you could see the bed there. In the old days, in Victorian parlors, the table took the center spot, it was the nucleus about which all of the family life came and went in a vast moving circle. The bed, then, was Miss Lydia’s soul and core. It stood away from the walls. The chandelier, one also noticed, was in the corner; she had disconnected it herself, almost electro-cuting herself in the process, but down it came and there it lay. It had hung down over the bed and that was intolerable. The area immediately over the bed, on the ceiling, was covered with one huge six by six foot square of fly paper thumbtacked firmly into the plaster. The feet of the bed were placed in five inch pie tins which were filled to the brim with kerosene. The rest of the room had the smell of brush and soap. Everything was laundered, starched, and dustless. She herself wore a light cotton dress with nothing under it. This was very evident; but she being a thin breastless wraith, it was not objection-able as it might have been in a more fulsome woman. Her nails, you noticed, when she shook your hand, were scrupulously pared and cleaned. Her hair was closely cropped and had the feathery look of hair that is washed every day and with which nothing can be done. Her eyes were clear and she spoke firmly and certainly at you when she spoke.

THE SAVED SADNESS

He would save it all in him, a tight hot ball of sadness and terror and sor-row and rebellion, all wet, all pressure, until he had made it across the crisp broomsedge fields, under the empty winter apple trees, over the taut web of ice on the silent creek. And then, plunging into the house, he would let the siren loose, the tears gushing on his small cheeks, the mouth open, all the hurt and sound in the world released as his mother reached out her arms to take him.

THE JIgSAW

bradbury You must know, first of all, who and what he was. His name was John Matthews and he was tall and loosely connected bone to bone, his skeleton thrown into a relaxed flesh and his flesh dropped like


an envelope into a mailbox of clothing. His tie was always half off or half on, according to one’s personal interpretation. His eyes looked easy from his head and his head stood loungefully upon that slumberous spinal column and you saw him draped over furniture here or there in the world or collapsed over his typewriter like a pile of kindling or loping through the world as if life were one long track meet and him the winner long before the end. Without lift-ing his hands he seemed to be saluting some invisible crowd that admired his oiled ease and unself-conscious grace, the wonder of so many long bones sin-ewed and bound together and adance under the label MATTHEWS, JOHN, age 35, wife, three children, writer, good guy, pal, husband, father, creative thinker, good conversationalist. How is it, you ask, that one day a life like this, with a man like him at the center of it all, goes plain and fancy to hell? In answer we must visit the day February 1st, 1961. That was the day it all started downhill. By the next noon the avalanche was over and the rubble lay at the foot ^of the mountain.^

THE COLORED SHOE MAN

He stood waiting for the street car, any street car, no particular color or time or shape that streetcar, as long as it had people on it going somewhere. If a streetcar went west first, he’d take it. If one went East, well East he’d go. He had a large canvas box slung to the sidewalk at his shiny black and white shoes and his face was gentle, serene and the colour of coca-cola. White watch-springs of hair curled up on his round skull. His slender hands were covered with soft white gloves and he was humming. He was a shoe salesman.

THE SCISSORS gRINDER

In the early spring mornings you could hear him come along the silent street. Tink. Tink. Pause. Tink-a-link-a-link. Pause. Tink. Tink. Pause. Tink-a-link-a-link. The rumble of his cart wheels. The clear chime of his bell. “Scissors! Scissors!” his fading cry as I lay in bed. The whining of the screen spring below. The thud of the door. Grandma’s voice. “Here!” Tink. Tink. Pause. “Yes, ma’m.” “Here’s a pair of shears I want sharpened,” said Grandma.

characters 29

“Yes’m, have ’em fixed in a jiffy.” Looking from the high third story window, Jeffrey saw the grinder’s brown leathery face with the odd grey eyes. He held the shears in his withered hands and smiled at them, while Grandma turned and went back in the house. Now the scissors grinder brought forth a stool, sat on it, propelled a treadle wheel with one crack-seamed shoe, and touched the shears to the rumbling, rotating wheel. Showers of red and yellow sparks leapt up like a July Fourth celebration.

Figure Two—The Medicine Show

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part FourReveries

Fire is baroque

r.b. 7/30/57Without having ever heard the word, a fire is baroque. Plumes, feathers, sands of time, winds of cloud and fiery mist go up and away. Everchanging, eva-nescent, a fire on a hearth is youth flung up the chimney in sparklings and flinders and age coming down in funeral plumes of grey ash. The tide of color and warmth washes over the stones of the hearth, coming and going, going and coming, as does life upon this earth. So fire changes its patterns, builds and rebuilds, instant to instant, its bright architectures which no sooner seen are forgotten, no sooner perceived than destroyed. Everything passes away, everything begins anew. Everything dies, everything is reborn. Nothing stays. Everything happens. Baroque indeed, the fire is the fountain of life, with the mystery of burning at its center, with the mystery of motion at its bright core. No wonder then that men sit hypnotized in their caves, in their homes, or on hills at midnight, watching the near burning of the campfire, the hearth, or the far burning of the milky stars. He looks upon his own mystery, the ten billion suns alive in his tidal bloods. He cannot look away.

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THE BURNT pEOpLE

byRay Bradburyjuly 7th, 1954

Quite suddenly, in the center of the blazing sky of summer, above her, stood the man who had come from the fire, stood the burnt man, all black, his lips puffed with heat, his eyes heavy lidded from the burning. His hands hung down all sooted over and smoked to a blackness like hams hung in a smoke-shed she had seen on a farm only the summer before. Then the man was shambling by and gone and she was turning to watch him go, horrified. He put one foot in front of the other across the green lawn toward the coiled watering hose and bent toward it with his hand out. She didn’t know what he might do next, there was no time to think what he might do. But all he did was stand there, black and burnt under the July sun, with the hose held out to let the water fall in great clear fountains on the grass. He moved slowly as a farmer casting millions of glittering seeds, across the lawn, away and away from far. She turned and ran in the house and let the door slam.

The steadfast sea

The steadfast sea. One wave after another, one curved mirror after another coming in on the timeless shore and breaking down. And all of the people of the dark timeless world standing on the shore, with their cities behind them, looking out at the curved mirror waves coming in. And there is no reflection. Man is a myth, a vampire, unreflected in the great green mirrors. Did you ever see a man’s image in a wave? Never. Not even the satire’s image of the distorted fun-house mirror. The waves were here a million years ago. Man wasn’t. He won’t be here a million years from now. The waves will. Vampire man and his vampire myth cities on the timeless land, unreflected in the mirror waves. The waves cream in, all salt whispering cream, sighing down on the breathing shore.

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When the sound of the sea and the smell of the sea/Come in

When the sound of the sea and the smell of the seaCome in the night dark pool of the skyIn the tideland clouds, in the tattered shroudsOf film-fog enveloping stars and moonLike the sounds of sharp harps hung and strungIn the moistened trees over wet-black streets,On the dazzling bricks of the rain-lacquer avenue,The needle rain pierced air, striking, sewing earth,Then walk I with pale moist hands in pocketsLike small animals stirring in dark wombsAlive and alert, along the lantern-lit undersea streets.

At night the wind plunged through the house

At night the wind plunged through the house, lifting and prying and wan-dering. In the morning the sun entered the windows, blazing and bleaching the timbers until they snapped up like whitened bones. It was a contest be-tween elements as to who would have the house. It belongs to me said the midnight wind, no me said the shrilling mice running like freely tossed nug-gets on the floor, no us, said the rain threading down through the discolored ceilings. The house was sighing in upon itself. The books were turning black, page by page, as if turned by the hand of some dirty boy each day until the print was obscured. And the house undertook to destroy itself, closets would suddenly breath fire, exhale flame through closet doors, that would be stifled and put out as a candle is extinguished by lack of air. We were once read, said the books, staring with their blind letters, and now are read no more. Who will turn us now, the wind? Who will read us with a blazing eye now, the sun? Who will feel our bindings, the field mice? Yes!

The wind all around

The wind all around, the wind in the attic rocking the chairs by use of a torn hole in the tar paper roof, the wind in the cellar tapping on the door like an old Negro gentleman begging your pardon but could he come up for a visit, an old night negro with an evil candlelight in his eyes, the wind everywhere, like children. That’s just what it seemed, as if the world was swarmed over by a child invasion, children slamming shutters, running up stairs, cracking tree limbs,


tipping rain barrels, and in fits of October fury, laying the garden high on the chimney, like a hat, and snatching scarf after scarf of smoke away, worrying it to shreds. And no matter how you shouted, you think those children minded and sat down? No, the wind was boiling all night, and in his house, Johnathen Colt sat with a pitiful gun in his hand, ready to shoot the wind if it broke the house down like a Swedish matchbox and got to him. At first the night had been silent.

TO MAKE THE UNFAMILIAR FAMILIAR

to make the familiar unfamiliar,that is the function of the writer.

In the night he awoke and lay listening to the things of his life growing and turning upon the soil of this world. He heard the secret graspings after water and the silent seepage of the water up the hidden roots.

To lie upon the dusty nap of the rug

To lie upon the dusty nap of the rug, with the roses woven therein, with the middle afternoon light and sense of being undersea, but not under-water no, under a depth of fine clear yellow sherry wine, to lie there with his small body spread out and his eyes closed, to listen to his grandmother and his mother talk so near and yet distant, that was William’s occupation each day. They would think him asleep, but he would be eavesdropping to each muffled yet clear word and he wished the afternoon might never end . . .

gREEN AFTERNOON gREEN AFTERNOON

It was a green afternoon. The trees were left alone in the sky, untouched by any motion, and the houses of the simmering town were as white as teeth in the sun, scattered all about among the meadow-streets. The only sounds were dim enchantments of washing machine on shuddering back porch, a distant baby or a telephone, shrilling, removed, answered and quieted, one or the other. And the strange sorcerical noises of vacuum cleaners, nuzzling up the small floating dust universes in sunny rooms, destroying words. All else was the silence of growing grass and blossoming tree.

reveries 35

It was a melon patch

It was a melon patch where the sun lifted up the leaves and ran its way through the grass every morning and left it alone to itself and the moon every evening. During the night the smell of the melons would push at the curtains and you would wake up with the smell in your mouth where it could be tasted as well as sniffed. The house was settling into a green ocean in the middle of meadows so vast that sometimes I felt that I was on the planet Venus, a billion miles away from the nearest walking man. On summer days you couldn’t see a locomotive steaming by or a boat treading on the river with its slap-wheel, or a Negro-boy dancing up the dust with a harmonica clapped to his pouting mouth, like you could see other places. You only saw the green spreading in a tide that never ebbed by always flowed, with sprays of Jesus breath and dandelions in yellow crestlets, like pools of kelp, forever and forever, about this lonely house. Sometimes I wondered if we’d ever reach the shore. But then I would go into my room and sit at my typewriter and let the plocking noises of the alphabet striking the white bond paper flow on out over the green fields. By noon I’d have a stack of literary wheatcakes on my right. On this particular day I saw a speck far off on the horizon, it looked like a man wandering always at a distance, in a great circle about my house.

“It is a clear cool morning”

“It is a clear cool morning,” said William, “and I stand outside the ship looking at the dew collected on the surface of the field.” “It is a cold morning,” said Ann. “But I have been trembling all night with more than the cold.” “The ship is cold,” said the Captain. “The door cold, the metal cold, the leather seats cold, the levers and buttons cold, the engines themselves cold, the jets cold, the skin of the entire ship and all the people in it cold. But everything will be warm soon. First the engines and then the jets, and then, as they are touched, the levers and buttons, and then the people, as they are touched by this experience, warmed and heated and pressed back into the leather seats to warm and heat them. And then the skin of the ship, the flesh of the ship, warm, warmer, hot, hotter, red-hot, white-hot, ready to drip away in silver splashes. By that time we’ll be through the atmosphere and out into space. We’ll be gone. And the people on Earth will have a purple wound puls-ing in the retina of their eyes from watching us go.”


“It’s almost time,” said Johnathan. “Time,” thought the crowd. “Now I’m going into the ship,” said Ann. “Now I’m locked into the great bed-seat like a spider caught in my own web,” said William. “Now, it’s time,” said Ann.

In the window of the candy store

In the window of the candy store, eternally twisting and retwisting and weaving itself into a changing series of patterns, was the loop after loop of pull-taffy, with the great metal arms of the machine continually folding and re-folding it upon itself. Mr. Beeker used to stand by the hour just watch-ing that incredible symbol, like life itself, turning and twisting upon its own amazing, fluid body, always a new thing to watch, always a new line or form.

He lived in an element of mud

He lived in an element of mud. In the boiling mud lakes, under a sulphur sun, in a time of heat, steam, fire-rain he lived. The element around him was thickened with bubblings and hissings, risings, fallings and continual immer-sions. He knew nothing but the sea of endless lava binding him. He was an eyeless, earless, noseless entity suspended in hell. He knew only his world, that somewhere above was an end to mud, and a start of empty air. And all about him the struggling, motioning, self-aware inhabitants of his own fea-tureless community. All in brown blackness they moved, he with them. Their mouths gaped. Their hands groped. They sought upward. And then the important day arrived.

To watch the great round mouths turning

To watch the great round mouths turning and chewing the cement slush, wallowing and cupping and catching it in rotary slices and sloppings, while the men fed in the shovels of stone and gritty spades of sand and baking-powder dusty cement, the powdered sugary men, Mexicans buffed white by the stone pollen, now turning in the gulping waters of a black hose, while the cement mixer jangled and huffed and let down a sluicing tongue of molasses-slow product on the other side into balanced barrows which, trundled off to the

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waiting raw earth, plopped down to fill the squares, to be smoothed and patted and curried and printed with a name: KELLY AND OHANNON:1927, while the sly children waited to leave their fingerprints at twilight.

THE pLAYgROUND

In the morning, there was the kitchen to be scrubbed until it looked like a river, down which the children would presently come boating, wading in sun-light up to their chins. After the children were packed and sleepy with food, there was the eternal searching after dust, even as, on Sundays, she searched after Truth in the undersea atmosphere of the church. You always found the dust and you thought, this is all of it, but, the next day there was more, and you went on looking for it every day. Mrs. Bidwell went around with an inner smile on her face all day, for there was a pleasure in touching things and creating things, bringing the soups to a boil, cutting the loud toast, and even calling in the workers from the fields made the vocal cords feel useful. As she poured their soup plates full, she would

THE DIFFERENT pAT

Each year she was a different girl, she was air, she was water, she was fire. Now she was the quietest stream running in the quietest hills. Now she was torrents of April rushing toward July. Now she stopped and turned and smiled upon the world. Now she frowned and thunder held lightning in the center of its dark cloudy sound. She had the flesh of a woman who scrubs it quickly and firmly until it is a burnished peach. Her lips caught fire from her lipstick. Her eyes were the ^woodfire^ smoke of woodfires. Her hair was bright and flowing as the movements of a water seal. She looked from the frame of pho-tographs at you and even there was different each time you looked. Yet only twenty-one now, the snuff of the birthday candles still in her flared nostrils.

Figure Three—The Cool Cold Smell of Water

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part FiveDreams

THE MONK, THE MONK

bradbury She awoke and, a moment later, felt her husband wake beside her. She was sitting up in bed with the moonlight on her hands which she turned up now to look at as if the bits of her dream might be there. The hands were empty. “What’s wrong?” asked Will. “I had the strangest dream.” “What was it?” “I dreamt someone was singing that old song, I went to the animal fair, the birds and beasts were there . . . and ending with the elephant sneezed and fell on his knees and that was the end of the monk, the monk. When the song ended I dreamt I looked out our second story window here into the branches of the maple tree and there was a hideous ape, or monkey, I don’t know which, dancing there on the big branch, and exposing himself to me. Lord, he was dirty and exhibitionistic!” Her husband laughed quietly.

SUMMER NIgHT IN THE COURT HOUSE SQUARE

On the hot nights of summer, when you lay awake listening to the darkness among the lilacs, waiting for a sleep that did not come, many times the ad-venturers in slumber would dress silently and tiptoe down the hot stairs in the dark and out along the starlight hot sidewalks down toward the court house

39


square. And there on the lawns, like a Confederate encampment, would be the other refugees from the summer night, the men, the women in groups of three and usually seventeen or thereabouts, chaperoning each other in quiet laughter, and the children come upon an adventure all unfamiliar and happy with the change in their life. It was like a war without a war. All of the excite-ment and expectation and none of the tragedy. They were seeking only one thing, a breath of air, a touch of coolness and a bit of sleep.

“What’s it get a woman?”

“What’s it get a woman?” “What, mother?” “All this very fine future,” said Mrs. Wills. “All these rockets and atoms and all these fancy moving sidewalks, does it make a woman happier? In a cow’s ear, it does.” “What’re you talking about, mama?” “It’s the woman who has the children while the men jump off to the stars, that’s what.” “I’m done with breakfast.” She came to let him down from his chair. “Now, you run on to the park and play,” she said, patting him feebly. “Your mother’s going to sit in her Dreamalator some more.” “Bye bye.” The door slammed. She sighed. Walking sluggishly over to her Dreamalator, which resembled a giant green velvet clam in the corner of the living room, she pushed a but-ton. The clam opened its silent jaws. She climbed in and lay down. The clam shut. She was swallowed in it. Buried in it like a rock about which the stuff of dreams might collect as aqueous matter gatherings about a grain of sand within a real clam, to make a pearl.

dreams 41

THE DREAM——————————a story based on a picture

by FOLONwritten by ray bradburyapril, 1972

THE DREAM—Bradbury

He remembered how the dream began. But he could not remember why. No matter. The dream was there. And it was terrible. Not so much what went on in the dream as the fact that night after night the dream returned, and it was always the same. “I wouldn’t mind so much,” said Charles Simmons at breakfast after ten nights of dreaming, “if I dreamed a different sort of thing each night.” “What are you talking about?” His wife went on buttering her toast and applying marmalade for all the world as if no terror lived behind the doors or hung in webs or whispered in hinges late at night when the wind came in or went out of the house. “My God, haven’t I told you yet?” said Charles, stunned at his own mute-ness. “Well it’s me or a psychiatrist,” said his wife, blithely, and fell silent, for the look on his face did not invite the sun. His was a lunar aspect and most awfully depressing. “Tell me about the dream,” she said. And this is what he told: There was an empty city with blue brick walls and empty streets in a kind of twilight. And through this flew grasshoppers or cicadas with heads that vaguely resembled people. That wouldn’t have been so bad, except one of the insects had his head, or a head that looked somewhat like his, for the eyes were large and like the bottle of wine-bottles. He had been half blind most of his life and had grown accustomed to peering out at the world from behind thick lenses. So here he came now, with eight legs and great translucent wings and his own head screwed onto an insect body. All of which was very fine for a few moments. But then of course the crab creatures arrived.


Or a crab creature with twenty legs and mandibles to seize the flying in-sects out of the air and devour them. Here are the narrative ends. It remains only to observe the following. On the evening that Ronald Rad-cliffe shot himself, a neighbor, hearing the shot, rushed across from the next apartment. Opening the door, he was startled at a flight of grasshoppers or locusts, as he put it, that flew out past him as he went in. This was impossible, he said later, for the windows were shut and the screens in place. What the grasshoppers were doing in the room we never learned. Beyond that, by the body, were found the ruins of some creatures that looked like miniature crayfish.

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part SixHouses

THE CELLAR, THE ATTIC, THE pANTRY

The moist damp deep hole where the plums hung in liquid solutions, in glass jars, row on shining row, provisions for ten thousand armies. The wet dripping cellar hole dug out of primeval earth, raw and beamed with wood, ascuttle with rats and heaped with coal flung in from the chute of the truck which brought it once a month. The smell of gas from the ticking quarter me-ters. The slow working sound of wine foaming in the large vats set on trestles by father. That was the cellar. When you opened the upstairs hall door the smell of it came like a moist scarf across your face. It was like opening the lid of a dark grave.

Very early that morning

Very early that morning he began to have the feeling that the house was watching him.Whether or not it was the mirror in the dining room or the little light bulb in the den wall, he could not say. Both had to do with illumination, and both, therefore, were suspect.He soaped the mirror and unscrewed the bulb, thus blinding both.He felt better for about an hour.Then he began to wonder about all the keyholes in the house.And that was his downfall.

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LONg AFTER MIDNIgHT

Long after midnight . . . What sounds a house keeps to itself. The same sounds are there in the day-time, but do we give them notice? We are so occupied with our living. But by midnight things have slowed and the day’s occupations dwindle into nothing. Then the sounds which are the house wax upon us, all the secretive clusterings and mutters of water in hidden pipes, the mice, in turn, running like water in the walls. Old dry sounds, as of burning papyrus in the attic, or immense white toadstools rising like moons in the damp cellar. The sounds are either moist or dry, there is not much to choose from. The windows shake and there is the delicate sound of a spider spinning his web. Listen. Listen. Old ears grow more sensitive, too. And in his wheelchair, like an immense hound dog suddenly comforted and given hot water bags for his innumerable aches, the old man wheels soundlessly through the midnight house. Listen. Listen. He tilts his mummified ears now this way, now that, balancing the sounds as a seal must balance invisible spheres in continuous performance. The clock. The old grandfather clock suddenly exploding out brass sound-ings of time. Midnight. Now the fun begins.

THE BOARDINg HOUSE

The rooms were full of paprika dust, perhaps that was the first thing that Mr. Bolling noticed when he set his parcels down and allowed the ample pink woman to lead him through the house, pointing delicately at this that the other room, this that article, this or that person. Paprika and summer dust and dust from autumn leaves and dust (most impossible of all) from snowflakes, if you please, when she opened the refrigerator and stuck a plump finger in at the wonderfully frosty fat turkeys there just waiting for teeth and the green onions piled like mossy cordwood, and the strawberries in a crim-son heap for the shortcake that was even now blooming as soft as a large white flower in the oven. She flourished the oven door and a vast exhaust of sweet warm bakery air wrapped itself about Mr. Bolling’s face and thin person and he was transported in a rapture, in a dream he handed over his first week’s rent, and let himself be shown up the stairs to his own particular and some-how magical room. “I’m sure we’ll get on fine,” said Mrs. Alphabet. Her smile hung in the air after she had gone away. He hated to close the door on the memory of a smile like that, so he left the door open while he sorted out his meagre stock. “A most unusual boarding house I’ve moved into, I feel,” he said.

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The house drifted with dust

The house drifted with dust. It fled down the rivers of light from the high windows. It fluttered out the opened doors. It bloomed up in great gusts from the cellar. It lay on the face of the man in the downstairs bed. It lay on the brow of the woman in the upstairs closet. It lay in the dry stone eyes of the small child in the crib in the back room. The house was like a flour bin. When the front door opened a great seizure of dust flurried around and about, and Joseph Sikes stood sneezing in it. “They say this dust is poisonous,” said Raimundo, behind him. “We must keep the door [illeg strike out] open.” “On the contrary shut it,” said Sikes. The other obeyed reluctantly and stood with his hand on the brass knob.

The house was a good house

The house was a good house and had been planned and built by the people who lived in it, in the year 1980. The house was like many another house in that year, it fed and slept and entertained its inhabitants, and made a good life for them. The man and his wife and his two children lived at ease there, and lived happily, even while the world trembled. All of the good things of living, the warm things, music and poetry, books that talked, fires that built themselves in the fireplaces of evenings, were in this house, and living there was a contentment. And then one day the world shook and shook again and there was an ex-plosion, followed by ten thousand explosions and fire in the sky and a rain of ashes and radio-activity, and the happy time was over . . .

In other parts of the house

In other parts of the house, in that last instant under the threat of ava-lanche, various other choruses of voices, not the warning ones, could be heard announcing the time, playing music, cutting the lawn with a remote control mower, or setting out an umbrella on the front porch, a hundred things hap-pening, like the interior of a clock shop at the hour of striking, when each clock strikes a different second, later, earlier, none at once, what a scene of confusion and yet unity, singing, screaming, a few small cleaning mice still darting bravely out to carry the horrid ash away. The round disc mops leaping out to sop away the terrible water. Around and around in a merrygoround of action and squeaking and groaning and whispering and rushing until—


The crash. The walls tumbling. The attic smashing into [illeg strike out]

^parlor, parlor into cellar^ [illeg strike out], cellar into sub-cellar. Deep freeze, arm chair, bed and all like skeletons thrown in a cluttered heap deep under. Smoke. Silence. Smoke. Nothing left but flat ruin.

Until this day, how well the house had kept its peace

Until this day, how well the house has kept its peace. How carefully it has asked “Who goes there?” “What’s the password?” And getting no answer from winds and rains and lonely foxes and passing dogs and whining cats, it shut its windows and drew the shades in an old maidenly preoccupation with [illeg strike out] self-protection which bordered on a mechanical paranoia. It quivered at every sound, the house. To paraphrase, no leaf fell to earth nearby unnoticed. No bird brushed the sills without a resulting impulse reacting within the house. A shade snapped up! The bird, startled, flew off! The shade winked down, almost satisfied with its task done. No, not even an evil bird must touch the house. But as the days passed the house became like a lover without a loved. All of these generous acts of love it was compelled to do by its very colloidal nature, what did it get in return? Silence. Silence and nothingness. And small specks of dust pollinating the quiet air. All the gifts and acts for nothing. The house was an altar with ten thousand attendants big and small servicing and attend-ing and singing in choirs, but there was nothing on the altar any more. The gods had gone away. But the movements of the religion continued senselessly, uselessly. Not a fragment of leaf blew under the door, but what a small trap in the lower panels of the wall flipped wide. A tiny copper scrap-rat rolled out on tiny wheels. It rolled swiftly to the leaf, snatched it in steel jaws. Back to the trap. Flip! Gone! More leaf fragments. More mice. Regiments of mice who waited hidden in antennae-sensitive silence, trembling, for bits of dust or hair or grass to blow under the door or through a keyhole. And then, mice regi-ments out! Eating the dust.

CHApTER FIFTEEN: The House of Sighs

It was a house that talked all day and half the night. During the day the old bones expanded under the straight or the glancing blows of the sun. During the night it muttered to itself as it took in its material, shortened its beams, contracted its shingles, kept its breath. There were three floors, all covered

houses 47

with a chain mail of ancient paint that flaked away in snows if you ran your fingers over it or gave it a knock or sneezed or walked the least bit heavy. Like an immense old dog it huddled by the shore, shedding its pelt and making its attic to cellar murmurs through the year. Mostly it talked of summers. In winter, when the fog had really come and wrapped it up, the beams of the house hardly talked at all, so severely was the ancient wood contracted. Then the place lay in hibernation. But in summer and midfall when the weather still changed as much as thirty degrees from dinner to midnight, from a high of eighty to a low of fifty, there was hardly a minute the house did not say something. And what it said was: time; old; remember; lost; sad.

The town was a beautiful ruin of a place

The town was a beautiful ruin of a place, with the chancels and granaries fallen upon themselves like the bones of a cremated dinosaur, all white ash and chalk, and deep in the dripping cellars at night you could hear lost chil-dren calling Father Father but the fathers never answering for the children were not children at all but men and women of thirty or thirty-five summon-ing each other with their sad cries. The shouts would echo in wet vaults and in the inter-laced beamworks of old factories, and if one descended by one of the numerous vines, one would not know where the upper world or the lower world ceased or began, the old cities were melanges of above-ground and un-derground civilization, of subterfuge and camouflage. A house that seemed to be a house was fluttering canvas sucked at by the wind, while a tomb that seemed to be a tomb was nothing but an escalator, now mute and motion-less that had once drawn women and yellow-haired children into a cellar of wonders. But now the wonders were mossed over and lay like bearded toys, their green whiskers blowing in a wind that found its way down. It was into this world that Arthur Benjamin came one summer night. He had been walking down the road from a far city, hands in pockets, whistling, thinking to himself: “Who am I? Where am I going? How did I get here?” He didn’t remember. He remembered only yesterday, picking some flowers, yellow flags by the road, and nothing else of his thirty years. “I don’t care,” he added. “I don’t want to remember.”


part SevenClimates/Seasons

In the yard the three apple trees grew up

In the yard the three apple trees grew up like groping hands at the sky. In the spring they popped out blossoms and in the summer they made a Christ-mas spectacle with round red shiny apple globes which contained white meat and perfume and for which little boys danced on tiptoes, fumbling up at them with fishing poles. Then the little boys would jilt from the yard, shirts all pregnant with apples on the inside of their belts. And they would creep under the lattice work of the front porch, in the smell of the cool cellar and eat the apples there. Now it was autumn and the trees fell away into autumnal sickness. The hands let loose their bunches of leaves and the fingers extended into the witch-colored evening sky. Then the children stacked big leaf fires in the yard and chanted about them. Roby got out his Grandmam’s parasol and carefully split it in half and did other things to it. And he got her old opera cape and he made a kind of outfit, and he bought a black mask for a nickel for his face and one night when the wind was cool and shaking the trees he appeared in the black evening yard, under the apple trees, making a whirring noise, flapping great parasol wings. Roby was the Bat.

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climates/seasons 49

On those clean spring days

On those clean spring days the children would come running, their shouts before them to raise the birds in flocks from trees, their voices weaving pat-terns through the forests and dells as if someone had shuttled a great woof of gold thread through black, the children splashing up founts under each bare foot from the cold glittering streams, scaring crayfish under rocks, frightening cows to jump on meadow-grass, making faces appear in lone farm windows, until at last, panting out their candied breath, the children fluttered onto rocks and devoured their lunch, breathlessly describing and redescribing to each other the events and adventures of the previous hour.

THE HERB FOREST

They were going to the Herb Forest, to the deep green well of a place where the sound of birds that had lived ten centuries ago still lived and breathed if you put the echoes stirring. There were no birds there now. They were going to the Forest of Herbs where mantel-root and bristle-bark and toad-fern and mingle-moss could be gathered in wickers and carried on home for the season of melancholy now beginning. It would be a long winter, full of waters in the sinus and rheum in the eye and gongs tolling at midnight in the dreary cham-bers of one’s head. So now, before the snow fell and ruined the enchanted nightshades and the useable grasses, the old lady and the ten year old twins, boy and girl, were set out upon a path to find the magical equipments of nature and brew them for three nights in urns and coppers and store them in crystal bottles in the frog-dark cellar. Then they could stand in the open door of their cottage and say, “Winter, do your worst!” And slam the door and bolt it just before winter fell in a white avalanche.

It was one of the early Sunday afternoons in fall

It was one of the early Sunday afternoons in fall when things were getting a little sad, if not for the earth and the things of the earth, at least for the humans thereon. The sadness was in Juan Salazar because of many things, he lived in a great sour-breathing tenement, he worked long hours, his wife was the mother of five children and having another, his brother-in-law had moved in with his mother-in-law, there was no car to transport them anywhere at all in the world, and now, now there was the feel of autumn and traveling.


A BEAUTIFUL NIGHT byThomas Lovell Beddoes. v . . .

THE SMELL OF AUTUMN Every autumn he did not like it when that certain smell came, the smell of the end of the world, the leaves dead, the season dying, summer put away in bushel baskets and burned by children who rustled in great piles of fiery leaf. Every autumn he looked at the car and the bank-balance alternately, and went off to work hungry, with no appetite for the rest of a week or so.

She woke on a winter’s morning

She woke on a winter’s morning, in a time of crystal voices and hanging ice. Without quivering an eyelid, she could see the glittery tree, the lump stockings, all of it in tinseled detail. She laughed inwardly and lay letting the suspense round itself into a yarn ball within her. She would carefully unravel it through the day, playing it out, making it last until the sunset and the re-turn to bed and lonely dreams. “Time to get up!” Mother nodded through the opened door, and an in-stant later cold water on her face as she bent to the white tile bowl in the bathroom and felt the floor freezing her white, pure marble feet. And then, quite suddenly she remembered the Snow Man. In the excite-ment of the only good day in the year, she had simply forgotten him. She did not sleep well. In the night her hands moved secretly upon the counterpane, reaching out, and her eyelids quivered and now and again she would say something. Once she arose and looked from the window. The snow man stood silently in the yard below. She watched the sky. At any instant the sun might rise, like a yellow fur-nace, scouring the streets of snow and rinsing her snow man down among the dead brown grasses of last summer. Don’t let it be a hot day tomorrow, she thought, as she lay back. Let my snow man last and last.

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part EightSpace Travel/Other Worlds

THE NEW CRUSADE

It is not known how the New Crusade began. It is only known that on the afternoon of June 17th in the year 2132 that a great fleet was drawn upon the green meadows of Earth and the rockets of this fleet were both large and small and contained humanity of both good and perverse natures. Perhaps they were fleeing from their pasts or their presents, perhaps from war and the psychological pestilences that followed war. But they were met together in the good springtime of that year. “We go to find the Source. We leave Earth and fly out into the spaces of the Universe to find the Birthing Place, to find God, to live with Him forever.” These words were spoken by a man whose name was Christopher Smith. He spoke them over a system which distributed his voice through ten thou-sand announcer outlets and caused a great ocean roar of response to sound in the air from the many people.

The rocket was a silver thimble

The rocket was a silver thimble on a finger of fire. It twitched about in space. It left blue stars after it, and gushes of pink fireworks, and sounds that were not sounds because there was no air to hear them in. Space was a silent nothingness through which a soundless sound passed, through which men ran on their ways from one star to another, there to perform a little duty and run back, obsessed with this immensity.

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The interior of Mr. Travist’s cabin was black. He liked the idea of riding through space like a meteor. Having a black room made it seem as if nothing was around him and he was on his way a million miles to some silver glory.

The guns made no sound, then the other guns made no sound, but only light, pink light and moss-green light, a light like ancient cypresses in the great solid night of space, among the stars which, of course, were the de-pendable fireflies, the great blinks of light coming and going like a festival of powder-crackers on human holidays, the affairs of war between planets. The guns made a noiseless noise, the other guns barked a soundless sound. Bullets and shells came across space on inky nothingnesses. Shells hit rockets. Rock-ets came apart like cans of tomato soup or cans of silver minnows spilling the dead men out into the river of black space and stars. It was all as soundless as a dream under black lubrication oil, as a thing enclosed in black wadding. That was the space war.

THISTLE-DOWN AND FIRE

The thistles and fires of space, the long glides and the accelerations, they were to be looked back upon in one’s own good time, when the arteries tight-ened, and the heart slowed, and the spines on your chin burned white. Now, one was in the center of the movements of spaces without boundary, in the deep nights and suns of space. On the rocket winds, one blew, on momen-tums of flame and tremblings of concussion. The eye was alert, the hand ready, and every filament of nerve in the body sensitive.

They spoke of the spaces between the stars

They spoke of the spaces between the stars in many ways. They used many words of many types and there was never a time when they were not calling space a new thing or an old thing. They called it The Elevator Shaft. They called it the Junkyard. They called it the Closet. They called it the Pit and the Night and the Black Hole of Calcutta. They called it the Big Fall and the Drop and the Peacock. They called it The Christmas Tree and the Great White Way. They called it the Crystal Palace and the Kaleidoscope of Dreams and The Place of No Wind and No Sound and No Time. They called it No Man’s Land. They called it the Deeps. They called it The Land of the Midnight Sun. That was only a beginning.


THE LONg MIDNIgHT

Into space, away from the teeming and incredible earth, the earth of starved arteries and the massive autumnal heart burning into smoke and ash and coals, away from the Earth, Leonard Sumter was fleeing. Whether his destiny was on Mars or lay in the blackness reaches of far space, he could not guess. But he lay in his metal groaning bunk in the long midnight, and he was filled with the most precise and bewildering terror of all his life. His teeth threatened to splinter and explode in his raving mouth, and his breath felt vised by hot bone, and he knew no peace in him ever again that week . . .

It is not nice to spill down space

It is not nice to spill down space. It is no fun to be thrown free and let fall by dreadful circumstance in a wild toss that lasts forever and you screaming down the elevator shaft toward nowhere. You scream for perhaps ten minutes and then realize no one is listening but yourself, so you shut up and fall and fall and go on falling, and the rocket is gone and Mars is gone and Earth, where’s Earth, gone around the far side of the tiny Sun, and you alone in space falling, you know you are, yet it is as if you were simply stuck upon a great tarpaper wall unmotioned and forever.

LONGFALL

He was an autumn leaf from a dark tree, falling. He was a lit, unlit lit unlit meteor, silver armoured, gently lilting about in the great curves of space coming from no direction, going in no other. He was a compass needle now deciding one way, now another. He was a man, married, and a father, much loved, and long-gone, and his problem was this: for at least 24 hours he had been falling through the long night between Earth and Mars. He would be falling for yet another 24 and still another 24 hours after that, and then it would be 24 days and 24 months and 2400 years. For he had no power and no control, and he was sorry now that he had food enough to keep him alive for at least a week, which would give him time to think fast and die slow, until he finally urged his hand to reach up and open the lens-disc on his helmet front and let cold death in.


THE WITCH

Space was as big as it could be, no bigger, no smaller. And in the big dark-ness the Witch came, alone, made of metal, in its own good time, neither a him nor a her, but definitely a Witch. It was a ship, a ship painted black, with gleaming silver ports and tentacular arms that might thrust out suddenly and do a magic trick and go away. But there was no man inside the Witch, just a thousand humming rheostats and turbines and relay-sectors and inter-magnetic sourcers. It was as compact as a fist, was the Witch, and it moved through the galaxies as silently as a breath.

THE VENUSIAN CHRONICLES

bradbury The long years and the long rains, they went together. You cannot think of the planet Venus and not think of one thing, the eternal and never-ending rains. The story of Venus is the story of people who came and stayed awhile and wept at night in their sleep and did not know why they wept, save that the rain outside, on the steel roofs, brought out the sadness there, and after just so long, the sad children and the old-before their time wives and mothers, bent under the pressure of the weeping skies, went back to the rockets and took their fathers and husbands with them and leapt up through the mist, the fog, the thunder-clouds, to vanish toward the sun. In all, the time of man on the planet of eternal lightning and showers, lasted no more than fifty years. And this is the story then, which begins, and ends, with the sound of water falling and flowing around the shapes of silver rockets and the blinded eyes of men . . .

Chapter One

Edward Link lived in a small white house at the end of a road on the planet Venus. Since it was a rainy climate, and there were always bubbles of rain on the windows and rain boiling down the tin chutes of the gutterways, Edward Link stayed inside. His house was as warm as fresh baked buns, as warm as steam. Things in it were coloured with warm reds and yellows, to brighten his stay on the bleak planet, and he himself wore bright shirts of blue and orange, and green socks and suspenders. He dyed his hair very carefully, for the rain in the air bleached a man white in six months, even the hair on his chest to a mushroom colour, and he, like all of the men on Venus, wore sun-tan makeup. For the men of Earth who had settled Venus turned pale and looked like the dead in a few weeks, with skin the colour of turned milk, and lips like blue flint. So Edward Link was very careful to be bright, to tint his hair black, to colour his face brown.


His daughter had even worse a time, for women are never quite pleased with what they can do for themselves, and she was always at her mirror and always sighing.

THE VENUSIAN CHRONICLES. THE GARDENER. Lawnmowers, I said, that’s what Venus needs. I got the finest line of lawn-mowers, self-operated, hand operated you ever seen. Just finished inventing a new super-size lawn-mower, as big as a house. All I need is money to get it in mass-production. Have to keep mowing that damn lawn up on Venus every day, every night, every morning. They say it grows a foot an hour. I got weed-killer, too. Besides mowing the big lawns, we can kill a helluva lot of weed. I’m setting up shop as the first gardener there, I’ll make a million. You wait and see.

THE UMBRELLA MAN Parasols, that’s my line. Umbrellas, bumbershoots, raincoats, rubbers, ga-loshes, anything and everything to keep the rain off your shoulders, legs, arms, feet, face and head. I’m busy inventing all along, new ways of keeping off the long rains they say they have up there on the rain world. It stands to reason they’ll need me when the time comes.

The carnival was set up and ready to go

The carnival was set-up and ready, taken from its yellow wooden crates, unfolded and unhinged, the calliope with its brass throats ready to shriek and steam, the merry-go-round to whirl out its music in a bright centrifuge, and the ferris-wheel like a constellation of stars, to take its buckets of people up and around and down throught an evening. Mr. Haffrey stood looking at his carnival and at the planet Six upon which he had landed with his equipment. “It’s only a matter of time,” he said. “They’ll come. Don’t you worry.” His partner, Mr. Joseph Simms, went on playing a game of solitaire with a greasy deck of cards. “Look, Haffrey, why don’t we just face it, our tour of the outer planets of the Far Systems is down the drain. Why don’t we sell our equipment to some ignorant farmer somewhere and go back to selling ties?” “I won’t give up,” said Mr. Haffrey. “Some day we’ll hit the jackpot. Some day we’ll really be set. Give a tune-up on the calliope now, will you, while I get the puppets in order?” “I shall play Hearts and Flowers six times,” said Mr. Simms.


part NineMars

He felt it when they came from the rocket

He felt it when they came from the rocket, the wind blowing as if it would melt transfuse, burn away their originality, change and remould and act upon them like some cold blowing rain of chemical. Lightning flared, showing the blue hills of Mars, his wife’s tense face, his three boys at his elbow, and in that minute he knew fear. He wanted to put the baggage back into the rocket and go back ^return^ to Earth. “Chin up, Harry,” said Cora. “Here we go.” They went. They built and lived in a little white cottage and had good breakfasts there, but the fear was never vanquished. It lay with him and his wife, a third unbidden partner at every midnight talk at every dawn awaken-ing. “I feel like a salt crystal in a mountain stream, being washed away,” he often said. “For God’s sake, Cora, let’s go home.” But she only shook her head. “Some day soon, the atom bomb’s going to fix earth good. Then, we’ll be here, all of us, safe.” Tick tock, seven o’clock sang the voice clock. Time to get up, and they did. Something made him check everything, warm hearth, potted geraniums each morning, precisely, figetingly, as if he expected something to be amiss. The folded Boston paper, hot from the rocket trip across space, lay on the porch, fluttering in the Martian wind, and while he read it, with his pince-nez, dur-ing the chattery breakfast, he was forced to expand in pride in recognition of this thing the Earthmen had accomplished.

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The berries were ripened

The berries were ripened for the picker and the wind moved in the new grain. Saul Willem looked out over his land and knew a pleasure in his work. It was done and done to a farewell. He was not displeased, either, with the courting that had brought him a wife, and the living that had caused him children. It was a good life and Mars, once considered a planet of blue terrors and ancient threats, was a good place to fly on a rocket, land in thundery fire, and nail together one’s house. The land was sweet with harvest and the mel-lowness distilled itself through his thoughtful bones. He walked down to the well-house in his peacefulness. Inside it were the smokened hams and beef-sides, the bacon slabs and cooled crocks of marble-white milk lying in spring waters, all of the things an ancestor may well have had in old Ohio or Illinois back a hundred years. He was fingering these items with calm speculation when a shadow moved in the door behind him. “Good evening, neighbor,” said a voice.

THE CHILDREN

He watched them run and scream. He watched their small faces below him. He heard their shouts. Their footprints stayed in the sand where they ran, and they swam in the canal, making ripples where they splashed, ascend-ing water soaked and triumphant to run again and lie down and sleep in the noon sun. Here they were, transported, flung from automatic machines, like seeds, onto an alien soil, their parents ten million miles off in an atmosphere of ha-tred and concussion, their nurses burnt to cinders, their kindergartens sepa-rated into atoms, the fine sweet ritual of their days bombed apart, as yet not realizing how life had changed, expecting at any moment the arrival of the tolerant father, the kind mother, the strict teacher, the amiable grandparents with the fattening and child-spoiling treats. “Leonora!” Before he realized, he had summoned her and she stood, but-ter-yellow, cocoa-brown before him. “Yes?”

Many nights he could hear the voice calling to him

Many nights he would hear the voice calling to him. Some times he would get out of bed and run to stand looking down


into the flowered courtyard. The voice stopped. The flowers blew down lazy moonlit petals in the wind. He would return to bed, nervously pale. He would lie beside his brother and wait for the voice again. It never returned twice in the same night. Now, tonight, as he stood by the window, fresh from the bed, looking down, he heard the voice again, and this time there was a shadow on the garden wall. A shadow of a tall man, waiting quietly in the moonlight. It was after midnight. The house was asleep. All of Mars lay slumbering, moonlit hills, silent deep water canals, dead white cities. At the rocket port in New New York the rockets were in their hangars, silent for the night. All the lights were out. Earth shone green in the heavens. The small boy

“Come down, come down!”

“Come down, oh come down!” the old man cried, far away in the moon-light. And Philip ran. He came to the garden and the old man, trembling, seized him. His fingers were like cold lights, his face was only a dazzle of mist over the small boy, bending down and down. “It’s you, oh it is you!” cried the old man. “My son, my son!” Philippe was afraid and unafraid. He worked in the old man’s fingers, look-ing back at his house where his brother slept unaware that in the garden a reality and a dream trembled on the edge of insanity. “I’m not your son,” said Philippe. “I’m Philippe De la Vega. My father is Martian Consul from Mexico!” “Hush!” The old man watched the sleeping house as if it might explode. “You’ll wake the others. I’ve waited a long time and here you are.” “What do you want,” asked Philippe in panic. “Why did you call every night?”

The robot

The robot was somewhere under the loose light soils of Mars, perhaps in this graveyard, perhaps in that, none knew. But the three men with the spades in their hands and the devining instruments, who prowled by night and slept lazily in the hot day, they would not be turned by the wind or made insane by the moons. They kept on with their searching, until one afternoon, one of them lifted his hand and said, “Ah.” They all gave courteous attention to their machine.

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It was humming like a hive of golden bees. “The robot is here,” said Remundo. “Are you positive?” the others asked.

“What is it?”

“What is it?” “In the well?” “Yes, what is it?” “A hunk of iron, I think.” “More than that,” said Irene, suspicious. The boy said, “I don’t know.” Irene, eleven, said, “You do so, but won’t tell. I’ll tell mama.” “No,” he said, grabbing her arm. “Don’t. I’ll tell.” “Bend close.” He whispered in her ear. “It’s a robot.” “A what?” “An iron man, he’s got red rubies for lips, and diamonds for eyes and a body all built of yellow gold.” “I don’t believe it.” “Look for yourself.” They bent over the well from which he had pushed the lid. A martian wind had sucked it free some nights before and now this morning when they had hiked into the bleak mountain gorges on a childish excursion, Tom had found it. Her eyes widened. “It is a robot, way down, under water.” “Wonder what it’s doing down there.” “There’s an inscription in old Martian, I can’t read.”

THE COMEDIANS

They were very thin and shapeless in their harlequin costumes, like twin skeletons held within colored masses of silk, and their calcimined faces were gaunt and tragic with what had befallen them. “Here we are,” said Poirot. “You see what you have done?” “I have done!” The other, Francion, looked at the sky, asking the gods why they had given her such a doltish husband. “You, you, you ox! You brought us here, you insisted! The Martians will love us, you said, they will applaud us and give us money and perfumes and good foods!”


“I don’t recall that.” “You never recall!” She wrenched the cap of bells from her brow and let her twining golden hair out. “You’ve been a bumbling idiot since first I met you! Here we are, no fuel, no food, no plan! What do we do, jig for the wind? Perform for the empty air? Tell jokes to the empty canals?” Mars was a dead thing, as far as they could see. It had been constricted and it had withered in the fashion of a melon left to boil in its ancient juices until only the raw seeded pulp remained. The vistas depressed them with mileages of sun and sand crystals and innumerable quantities of silence. “We shall find an audience,” he said, straightening his wren-like shoulders in the scarlet silks. “Somewhere, we shall perform!”

The Carnival arrived about seven that night

The Carnival arrived at about seven that night. The sun was just going down among the blue Martian hills, leaving blue lights glimmering along the Highway of the Ancients, when the Martian men, tall and indecisive as vapors, and quite as ghostly blue as the last light in the sky, walked in a line, carrying upon their shoulders a long pole. The pole went back over twenty shoulders and, for its length was incredibly light. Wrapped about the fifty foot length was a kind of translucent membrane, something resembling a bat’s wing. The pole was raised outside the American camp, by means of a tiny propel-ler and vanes at the top. With a soft whirr, the pole rose and stood balanced. Then the membranes wrapped around and around the pole gave off a whis-pering and spread, like a giant bat wing, up, up, out, and around in a circle. Now the perfect circle stood against the sky, and the stars glimmered through it and the wind beat upon it making a soft drum sound. From the edges of this remarkable tent top the Martians hung silken festoons, and within the tent chairs that sprang out of discs in the hands of the Martian, the collapsible of all collapsible chairs, were immediately set up. From the teeth of dragons, as it were, comfortable chairs. The news of the Carnival reached Rocket Commander Sloane half an hour later. He was standing in the shadow of his rocket, talking with some men when one of them mentioned it. “It might be an idea to go over and see what the Martians have to offer,” said Smith. “I’m pretty tired, you go on ahead, I might join you later,” said Sloane. A tall blue man with a blue parasol under his thin arm, walked along the edge of the canal. Where he stopped, he flirted out the parasol, it whispered, it rose, it became a tent. Within the tent he made a chair out of a flat disc that

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grew in his hands, made a desk out of a flatter, square object. He sat at the desk until the entrance of the tent twitched aside. “Wulle?” “Come in.” Another Martian entered. He looked at Wulle and said, “Every thing is ready. The Earthmen are informed of our arrival. They will attend the carnival tonight.” Wulle nodded. “Good. We must be very careful. They must suspect nothing.” “What can they possibly suspect, Wulle?” “They are not ignorant by any means.” “Powerful people can afford to be ignorant; so they are. Because they have the atomic weapons aboard their rocket, they think they can order us around with manacles on our wrists.” “And that is what they are doing,” said Wulle. “But not for long,” said the other. “No, not for long,” said Wulle. “We are quite helpless against them, we have no weapons against them, there is no way we can fight back. We have no rocket, no atomic weapon, nothing. And yet, we shall win. We shall win very well indeed.” He listened to the wind blowing around the tent. “You’d better go and attend to the opening. I’ll be along directly.” “Yes.” The tent flap twitched. The other man was gone.

THE DUpLICATE CIRCUS

“There I am,” said the Captain. And there he was in the center ring, alone, among many mirrors. He was young and alert and handsome. He smiled and waved to his duplicate in the box.

Imagine it. Your own image appearing, speaking, bowing, saluting you in the vast arena of a circus. Your own image at the age of 21, performing in the windy circle of a Martian carnival, while you sit, perspiring, hypnotized with this miracle, leaning forward to catch every word! There you are, the same flashing eyes, the same tall carriage, all of it, nothing missing. What a hand-some picture you cut! You turn to the others with you and wave your hand. “There I am,” you say. And the circus goes madly on.

Figure Four—The Fourth of July

textual commentary 63

Textual Commentary

In his reminiscence of his grandfather, which opens this volume, Bradbury indicates the powerful influence that images had on his young psyche, going so far as to assert that the Harper’s Weekly pictures by Henri Lanos, illustrat-ing H.G. Wells’s When the Sleeper Wakes shown to him by his grandfather (Samuel Hinkston Bradbury, who died when Bradbury was not yet six years old), gave him a sense of the future. Probably every human being collects over the years a repertoire of favorite images, but in Bradbury’s case these images and metaphors evolved to create a large body of writings. They make up a the-matics.1 Each numbered section of this commentary, grouping together frag-ments based on their imagery, should be considered a thread in that themat-ics. Where possible, I have linked discussion to Bradbury’s published works. I have discovered no new themes, but rather variations and combinations of themes, that will be familiar to Bradbury’s readers.

01. Youth, Old Age, and Death

In this grouping, I wanted to present a feature of Bradbury’s thematics that deserves wider study, namely, its ambivalence. Bradbury seldom presents a theme or an image without somehow intertwining it with its opposite: Life/Death, Youth/Old Age. In Bradbury, the body—especially the grotesque body of carnival—is the symbolic space of this ambivalent reversibility, as in-deed it is for many writers.2 Life can embrace death and death lives on in life. Bradbury’s imaginative world is one in which things turn into their opposites without giving the slightest notice: a horseback ride through the Irish coun-tryside on a beautiful day that makes one feel at one with nature suddenly confronts us with the threat of a fall into the abyss; the closely observed dead body of a fallen trapeze artist can become a living source of imaginative rever-ie (a pale image under water). A young boy can become his grandfather, and a man can enter a hospital where “magic rituals” allow him to meet the woman from whom he will be reborn. Women’s bodies in particular are subject to this carnival ambivalence, for they simultaneously degrade and regenerate.3

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In Figure One, we can read about the uneasiness Grammy’s odorous and earthy body creates for the ‘normal’ people of the town where she lives. Al-though she is obviously beyond the childbearing age, Bradbury’s caricature of her is in no way negative, of course. Rather, text and picture are intended to generate a smile that unmasks pretentions. The figure at the extreme left can be either a gramophone (echo of her name, “Grammy”) or a nose, depending on how you look at it! You can listen to the Jolson recording played on an actual gramophone at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cd9YPHuU8TM.

02. Other Writers

I chose these three writers—a philosopher of modernity, a beloved children’s author, and a realist writer of America’s Gilded Age—to show just how di-verse Bradbury’s sources can be. The idea that Art is discordant with Truth, and that it exists to help us construct a defense against a dreaded reality we already know all too well, is at the heart of Bradbury’s aesthetic. Bradbury was fond enough of Nietzsche’s line to use it in a poem with the same title that could stand as his ars poetica.4 Also, Bradbury revisits in this heavily reworked passage Nietzsche’s distinction between scientific fact and value. Our scien-tific civilization has given us a world of facts, but no way to value them. For a post-romantic like Bradbury the Imagination, not God, is dead, bringing with it a crisis in culture.5 Values are to be created by artists and mythmakers, like himself. What has happened in Bradbury’s sequel to Baum’s Oz is that scientific civilization has created boredom. The Tin Man can no longer rust because a “fine new oil” now covers his body, and the Scarecrow is stuffed with non-combustible straw (similarly, in Fahrenheit 451, Fire Chief Beatty informs Montag that modern civilization has filled people’s heads with “non-combustible data”). We live in an age of information. Here however boredom is recognized as an aesthetic phenomenon and the only cure is to introduce excitement in the form of a Martian invasion, which Bradbury structures into episodes starring various carnivalesque characters—Tik Tok, Polychrome, and Professor Wogglebug—of the Oz universe.6 Bradbury uses the first paragraph of Wharton’s realistic narrative depicting upper class Americans characters mired in stifling social mores and traveling in Europe in search of freedom, only as jumping off point for his own crime narrative about how the petty theft of his camera stolen on his Italian train journey might reveal through its images the poverty of the thief, and the mystery of a beautiful woman. Para-doxically, it’s the images themselves, the snapshots, produced by a mechanical capturing process, which seem to possess the open-ended quality of life itself.


03. Characters

Traditionally in fiction, character can be revealed in various ways: by how a character acts, by what a character says about himself, what others say about him, and what the author/narrator tells us by way of point of view in describ-ing the inner consciousness of his character. Bradbury was of course familiar with all of these styles and fictional techniques, but developed his own varia-tions on them. It is true that Bradbury never created a fictional character large enough to take on an independent objective life of its own, like Sherlock Holmes or Don Quixote, but the many sketches he left behind serve to re-mind us that he was constantly developing his themes through the mask of character. In Bradbury we may say that character is always poetically revealed. Both William Fennel Darkside and The Magician (which dates from Octo-ber 1953) are meant to have presences strong enough in their impact on others to remain memorable. We can assume that Mr. Bleak and his medicine show (Figure Two) would have had a similar effect on the small town he invades with “evil gayety.” Bradbury also wrote an opening for a weird tale called “The Medicine Show” (not included here) which recreates the carnival atmosphere that patent medicine salesmen brought to American small town culture. These shows have been linked to the birth of modern advertising in that the sellers wanted their customers to be persuaded that their medicines (often containing cocaine or other powerful stimulants) would work for them. Bradbury’s story opening for “The Medicine Show” recreates this kind of performance rhetoric and includes an American Indian character whose testimony lends authenticity to the salesman’s curative claims. But to return to Figure Two, given the posi-tioning of the hands and the expression on the mouth, the doodle Bradbury drew for the second story opening might humorously represent the rejection of such medicine on the part of someone who had tried it! At any rate, all three of these character types derive from carnival and magic shows, large thematic concerns in Bradbury. Darkside’s “great quake of a house,” and the Magician’s “ghost lights” are also poetic performance effects. The magician’s card trick is picked up in the next fragment by the Joker of a personified deck of cards who admits to a “good-humored and well-played technique” in manipulating the other cards in the deck. This fragment can be read as an image of the author in his work and of character as playing card/mask. He desires someone called Rena, who may be the player of the deck. The All Hallow’s Family also involves us in a group portrait, in this instance of dark relatives contemplating how best to raise the latest addition to their family, how “to nurse it into a monster.” Bradbury’s humorous supernatural family can be fully enjoyed by reading From the Dust Returned, a project that he originally wanted to do with Charles Addams.


Bradbury, who derived much of his early understanding of character from various psychological theories of the personality, was adept at creating char-acter out of obsessive behavior. In the next two fragments Bradbury takes the identical pathological fear of insects—especially cockroaches, who represent being touched by filth—and plays it out along gender lines, male in the first fragment and female in the second. Both Mr. Knell and Miss Lydia create their “soul and core” around defending the beds they sleep in from invasion by crawling creatures, which suggests sexual obsession. Bradbury here creates a genuine American weirdness that predates the films of David Lynch. Bradbury’s psychological insight is of course always greatest in his under-standing of children. In “The Saved Sadness,” he creates the ‘inscape’ of a sad boy traveling home through a winter landscape who saves up his frustration so that he can later release it in his mother’s presence, thereby increasing the sensual (and masochistic) enjoyment of his discomfort.7 Dating from the early 1960s when Bradbury’s prose style was becoming more florid, “The Jigsaw” is a story opening that initially constructs charac-ter—in this case that of a successful writer—entirely out of a series of meta-phors that describe his external appearance. His occupation is mirrored in the way he dresses and moves his lanky body through the world: even his tie is a matter of interpretation. But before the end of the opening paragraph Brad-bury unravel his own symbolic code by telling us that this external portrait of John Matthews is no more than a “label” for a body/book of “long bones sinewed and bound together.” What happens to turn this writer’s life into a hell Bradbury unfortunately does not say, but he has captured out interest. The last two pieces are typical of the way in which Bradbury worked on generating minor characters for longer novel projects such as Summer Morn-ing, Summer Night (later Dandelion Wine). That is, he would sketch out a realistic character in a few short paragraphs and then insert the character into the novel as it developed, creating a series of perspectives on the narrative world. “The Colored Shoe Man” seems more the inhabitant of a city land-scape, where many streetcars would be available, while “The Scissors Grinder” seems clearly to be the denizen of a small town, like Green Town. In any case, both characters are defined by their occupations, the details of which are ob-served by means of concise poetic comparisons. The sparks rising up from the scissors grinder’s work create a miniature Fourth of July.

04. Reveries

Reverie is not a formal category of literary study. It is however one of the most powerful sources of human creativity, a fact acknowledged by authors them-


selves. Its presence can be felt in poetry and prose alike, in film and in music and in painting and in visual images of every sort. The most sustained study of literary reverie ever undertaken was that of Gaston Bachelard in a series of books on the archetypal elements: fire, water, air, and earth. Bachelard was a philosopher of science at the Sorbonne who first wrote about reverie as an obstacle to scientific thinking, which requires an epistemological break with the sensuous world. Later, in what almost became another career in phenom-enological thinking, he found praise for reverie as something that could return us home, after the necessary repressions of science, to the sensuous lived world of values and emotions. He coined the term material imagination to indicate the substance of archetypal reveries, and found thousands of examples in the world’s literature of the on-going presence of reverie. Some of his later books however were not about the material sources of reverie at all. Rather, they were about how we inhabit spaces (especially houses) and delight in natural forms (like seashells) that seem to invite our imaginations to experience well being. In his studies of poetic imagery based on the elements, Bachelard demon-strated how Poe’s imagination seems drawn to the heavy waters of melancholy and Nietzsche’s philosophizing rises to the brisk air of mountain summits. Although he did not claim to be a literary critic, Bachelard influenced a whole generation of phenomenological and existential critics who were interested in studying how a writer’s imagination could be drawn to certain privileged objects and sensations.8 Usually in these Bachelard inspired studies, we find authors irresistibly im-mersed in the imagery of one element that expresses their existential themes and cultural complexes. We read for instance that for Flaubert a drop of water represents various stages of existence.9 There is no doubt that Bradbury too used images of matter to express various states of being. However, what is remarkable about Bradbury’s imagination is that it seems drawn to every ele-ment, as can be seen in one of his most privileged substances, dandelion wine. In Bradbury’s descriptions of this substance, wine combines earth, water, air and fire (of alcohol and sunlight) to create a healing elixir. Wine is also a sig-nificant metaphor in Fahrenheit 451, helping Montag overcome his alienation from the natural world. Many other examples of reverie from Bradbury’s published work could be given here, but I have no hesitation in calling Bradbury’s reveries in these fragments Bachelardian, in the sense that their overall aesthetic function is to enable the reader to inhabit the special world of emotion and value, often associated with childhood. For the sake of organization I have arranged them by fire, water, air and earth, but Bradbury typically combines the elements in ways that are always startling and unique to his imagination. To explain how each fragment affects the reader’s aesthetic sensibilities is beyond the scope


of this commentary, but I have provided brief indications how the images in each fragment are organized to create reverie in the reader. The images created by reverie have a dynamic quality of movement and of rhythmic time that is difficult to study objectively. Images in reverie are perhaps best thought of as Bergsonian acts of consciousness, and not as decorative formal devices.10

Fire01. In this fragment, Bradbury compares the activity of fire to the baroque style, which concentrated on the ephemeral in open compositions that at-tempted to arouse in the beholder a sense of the inexhaustibility of the repre-sentation. This artistic tendency, at least in painting, made the representation seem part of a passing show. Art historians contemporary to the date of this fragment were beginning to point out that the artistic outlook of the baroque was, “in a word, cinematic.”11 It is intriguing to note that when he wrote this passage Bradbury was spending the summer in London working on an adap-tation of his story “And The Rock Cried Out,” for director Carol Reed. Fire is the essence of becoming, and Bradbury makes it into a cosmic principle of life, with mankind recognizing at the end of the passage that it too is created out of the stuff of stars.02. “The Burnt People” is also baroque or cinematic in its effect, reminding us of certain passages in Fahrenheit 451, which had been published the previ-ous year. As the burnt man makes his slow-motion way across the startled woman’s lawn, the effects of transformation by fire exert a fascination over us. However, Bradbury contrasts fire with water, and in a startling metaphor compares the burnt man’s actions with the watering hose to those of “a farmer casting millions of glittering seeds,” offering us images of water transformed into an inexhaustible earthly fertility.

Water03–04. Bradbury’s two water reveries both involve the sea. They make a con-trasting thematic pair. In the first mankind does not recognize itself in the natural world. The fact that there is no mirror in the timeless sea reflecting back our image leads Bradbury to speculate darkly that mankind is a vampire. The last images of creamy sea foam however invite another reverie, one that might counter the proud (male) dominance of vision with the nourishing effect of material (and maternal) substances. The untitled poem, which is saturated with the wet sensations of fog and rain that is “sewing earth” (per-haps a pun on sowing), helps set the stage for a return-to-the-womb fantasy as Bradbury, out walking, imagines the pale hands in his pockets to be small unborn animals “stirring in dark wombs.” In the last line the streets them-selves are undersea.


It is significant that this participation in the natural world achieved in the poem is not accomplished by vision, but by imagining substances: air, water and earth (the reflective lacquer of line 7 is of course is made from tree resin). In contrast to these images of the depths of substances, Bradbury does offer us a water reverie that is based on surfaces and reflections, at least initially, in Figure Three. The passage is short, but evokes the Narcissus myth, a large cultural complex. The boy sees himself underwater and calls out a hello to the image, which begins to move. It is only later, however, at night and away from the lure of the eye, when the true reverie of substance begins, “cool and secret.” Bradbury however continues the eye imagery in the sketch he drew on the manuscript page, which depicts a Picasso-like head with a crossed out eye, a seeming negation of mere reflective surfaces.

Air05–06. Bradbury’s two air fragments both involve the destruction or invasion of a house, always a valorized space in Bradbury’s imagination, by the wind. The first fragment is staged explicitly as a “contest of the elements,” as the wind, the rain, and then fire all attempt to destroy the house and its contents, among which are books that express their dismay at not being read anymore. The image of book pages turning black in the slow combustion of paper is a material and temporal process personified as boy reading with dirty hands each day. The second fragment is a rejected opening, probably the original, for one of Bradbury’s early weird tales, “The Wind.”12 Since we know from the published version(s) that the wind is a supernatural force trying to murder and incorporate the life energy of the protagonist, Jonathan Colt, a world travel/adventure writer who stumbled upon this evil entity in Tibet, we can understand why Bradbury describes the gun in his hand as “pitiful.” The wind is personified as children running at loose in the house, which it could crush “like a Swedish matchbox.” Bradbury’s mother was a native born Swede, and growing up he had an extended family of Swedish relatives. Undoubtedly he saw such matchboxes, which were famous for their extensive repertoires of exotic and nostalgic imagery, in his everyday life. No particular image is mentioned here; it’s left up to the reader’s imagination to fill in the blank with a favorite image.13

Earth07–16. The imagery of the earth in literature is so rich and diverse that Bache-lard ended up writing two separate studies of how the human will is expressed in these reveries. For the first study he examined forceful images the will, and for the second images of repose. I have arranged Bradbury’s reveries of the earth from repose to dynamic reveries of the will. The first four fragments


(07–10) are reveries of repose, with 11 being transitional, then followed by 12–16, exploring the happiness of work and self-transformation.07. This fragment opens with a statement about the function of the writer that could be summed up with one word: defamiliarization. This notion, that art exists to change our perceptions, was the cornerstone of Russian formalist aesthetics, the first really modern theory of literature developed in the early 1920’s that anticipated many “shock of the new” theories that came later. The formalists argued that a widespread fact about modern life is its routine nature and the fact that what we become habituated to we no longer see; it passes by us below the threshold of awareness. The challenge for the modern artist is overcome habit, which threatens to devour everything in life, modern inventions only serving to turn us into automatons. In Fahrenheit 451, Brad-bury makes almost the same point when Fire Chief Beatty’s lectures Montag about modern inventions and cites the example of the zipper on clothing; once we no longer take the time to button our clothes, there is less time to muse or philosophize, he says. Bradbury would seem to agree that art exits to slow our perceptions down and to make, as Viktor Shklovsky famously stated, the stone stony.14 Although their focus was on the perception of form and not imagination, I would argue that the slowing down of sensation in reveries of repose often ac-complishes much the same goal for Bradbury. Consider, for instance the two sentences that Bradbury offers us in fragment 07. If we read them with our own imaginations activated, we notice first that the whole experience is hap-pening at night in a psychic space that is between sleeping and conscious ev-eryday thought—the symbolic location of reverie. In everyday life, normally, we can’t dwell there for very long. What starts the reverie going is the image of “the things of his life growing and turning upon the soil of this world.” The next sentence evokes the “secret graspings” that underlie every conscious ac-tion. The hidden turnings of the roots searching for water are barely a figure, not intellectualized, for reaching into the nourishing subsoil of the creative unconscious. It’s a rather short passage, but nonetheless if we let it take root slowly in our own psyche, we experience a different awareness of the world and its connection to a reverie of repose.08. In this fragment reverie is part of a happy childhood, as properly it should be. One of Bradbury’s favored substances, wine (described as a “fine, clear yellow sherry wine”) is called upon to evoke William’s bliss at being immersed in repose, listening to the conversations of two women, William’s mother and his grandmother. No doubt they are talking about him. How much closer to the intoxication of the mother tongue can a male writer get?09. Although some of the images here are visual, this passage also focuses on the sensation of eavesdropping; indeed, the listener/narrator seems to spread


his hearing over the entire town, as the hot spell of summer descends upon it. Instead of a continuous flow of conversation, we find that the labor saving de-vices of woman’s domestic life—the washing machines and vacuum cleaners and telephones—have become endowed with the magical power to interrupt and destroy words. Mankind’s machines seem to have all of the activity in the passage, but the Green Afternoon of a small town ends with images of silence and with nature in repose, with growing grass and blossoming tree.10. This untitled reverie of repose is one of Bradbury’s most beautiful. The passage evokes not so much visual images (the traditional imagery of the plantation South is evoked as absent), but rather concentrates on the feeling of being inundated with sensations of the earth, in this case the fragrant smell of a melon field. The house that the writer inhabits—always one of Brad-bury’s privileged images—seems to float in the tide of a strange green ocean on the planet Venus. The writer too seems lost in this endless repose, wonder-ing if he will ever reach shore. Once again Bradbury has combined elements (earth and water, with a touch of fire in the sun), but when reverie is this deep words themselves begin to dream and are materially transformed, the sound of the typewriter making a “plocking sound” that flows back out of the house and into the field, as if the writer were watering the melons and encouraging yet more growth. The stack of “literary wheatcakes” contains an image that we ought to dream upon, for literature has become a food that sustains life.11. This passage is placed here because it marks a transition from reveries of repose to reveries of the will. In Bradbury, the space rocket embodies our active will to leave this earth behind and wander the universe. In his science fiction Bradbury often evokes rockets poetically (see the “Rocket Summer” reveries that open The Martian Chronicles in which the rockets make climates, changing frozen winter into summer), but here the rocket is our second skin warming in the cool morning. It must become warm before we can truly inhabit it. This is a reverie of the earth because of the presence of the dew on the surface of the field in the opening sentence, a substance that has celestial origins, as Bachelard point out:Dew descends from the sky in even the clearest weather. When rain falls from the clouds it produces heavy water; whereas when dew drops from heaven, it brings celestial water. But what does the term celestial suggest to a modern soul? A moral metaphor. If we are to understand celestial dew in a substantial sense, we need to remember that the adjective celestial once had a material meaning. Dew signified [in alchemy] pure water impregnated by celestial matter, or, in the words of the poet, “honeyed water from the heavens, milk from the stars.”15Milk from the stars! How resonant an image launching us on Bradbury’s cosmic reveries!


12–14. These reveries are clearly dynamic, mixing earth and water together in an imaginative process driven, Bachelard says, by the search for an “imaginary paste” that expresses the perfect balance of human will and resisting matter. I suppose anyone who has worked with clay as a potter or, to take a more ev-eryday image, kneaded flour into bread has known the experience Bachelard is talking about. It involves the hand more than the eye. There are many pos-sible variations of well being here, from the pulling of taffy to the kneading of spermaceti in Melville’s Moby Dick.16 Fragment 12, Bradbury’s taffy pull, is really a visual description focused on the intertwining of lines and forms. Nonetheless in the “fluid body” it creates an image that involves us in matter. At any rate in fragment 13 Bradbury creates an alien life form made of mud that lives in distress but nonetheless is struggling upward toward greater awareness and freedom—toward an “end to mud.” Fragment 14 is all one sentence, mixing many kinds of sensations based on water and earth in “the great round mouth” of the cement mixer. The Mexican laborers don’t seem unhappy but are rather transformed by their work into “powdered sugary men” (an image reminiscent of the Day of the Dead festival which Bradbury personally encountered in Mexico). Bradbury’s carnivalization of the serious workday world is playful enough to close with the image of “sly” children leaving their fingerprints in the wet cement.15–16. Bradbury has always been concerned with imagining the world of women’s domesticity. He often describes this world, not in negative male dominance terms, but in ways that are appreciative of how women create meaning and value out of doing everyday chores. Mrs. Bidwell has the “inner smile” that comes from touching the things of her world intimately. The dust that periodically invades her world is not a degrading burden, but a challenge, in fact an invitation to pleasure, and she goes looking for it every day. In the last passage of this section, Bradbury try to imagine the difference women represent to men by imagining how Pat becomes a “different girl” in each ele-ment. Women are not passively confined to water imagery alone.

05. Dreams

When first translated into French in the 1950s, Bradbury’s writings received a warm welcome by the surrealists. This is understandable, for Bradbury was pursuing a similar project of criticizing modern culture for its attempt to ra-tionalize the world. But even the surrealists, who absorbed Freud’s ideas about unconscious desire in the early days of the movement, aimed for at least a semi-conscious piloting of the images produced by dreams.17 A poetics based on the nocturnal dream would of course be quite different from that of reverie. For


Bradbury the nocturnal dream represents the existential possibility of a loss of freedom and of entrapment in a deterministic world, the world of nightmare where human purposes are thwarted by forces of which we may know nothing. In these fragments we find characters having various experiences of the nocturnal dream, some humorous, but not all of them positive. A crucial part of the Bradbury experience of the dream is telling to the dream to another, or at least trying to share it with others in some way. In fragment 01, a fe-male character wakes up from an exhibitionist dream of our animal natures inspired by a popular song, “The Animal Fair” (a version of this song can be found in Carl Sandburg’s American Songbag), and is gently laughed at by her husband, presumably because she does not recognize the desire as her own. Freud discussed the dream of exhibition and its relation to the unconscious wish to expose oneself in his The Interpretation of Dreams, and it is now fairly common knowledge that all dreams are about our own desires. In the lyrics to the song, the monkey gets drunk and sits on the elephant’s trunk, the el-ephant sneezes, and the song asks rhetorically what became of him. Another experience of the dream in Bradbury is the collective dream. In fragment 02 the inhabitants of a small town who cannot sleep all congregate in the court house square to pursue their desires. It might perhaps better be termed a collective reverie because the results are so beneficial. Although Bradbury evokes the collective tragedy of the American civil war—especially the Confederacy, who lost their dreams—the experience here is one of quiet laughter, with none of the tragedies of a waking life. By contrast the tone situation in 03 is much more serious. Indeed, a cri-tique of male dominated technological society—which seems to offer women no means to realize their dreams (in the sense of aspirations)—is provided by a mother, Mrs. Willis, who speaks to her young son at breakfast about her frustra-tions, but he does not understand her. Reluctantly, she decides to use the Drea-malator machine, which is formed in the shape of a giant green clam. The images here express the distress of her existential situation: she is swallowed by the clam, buried in it like a rock “about which the stuff of dreams might collect as aque-ous matter,” generating a pearl. We know however that she will not participate in the oneiric benefit of generating the pearl for herself in such a technologically induced reverie. Indeed, she seems to be robbed of her will to dream on her own. Bachelard relates to the image of the pearl to the image of dew mentioned earlier; dew and pearls are both products of crystalline reverie, which invite participation in the cosmos.18 All the more ironic is the fact that in this narrative world ap-parently men alone are exploring the cosmos, unlike the dew passage discussed above, in which both men and women are explorers and adventurers. In 04, “The Dream,” we encounter the literary nocturnal dream. Interesting-ly, this story opening and conclusion—it lacks only the central developmental


section to be complete—was inspired by an image created by Folon, the prolific Belgian-born illustrator, poster designer and sculptor, whose surreal watercolors and Everyman theme expressed the alienation of modern cities. Bradbury knew Folon personally and wrote two introductions to collections of his works in which he explored Folon’s images as visual metaphors. Folon himself illustrated for Bradbury a special edition of The Martian Chronicles.19 The image Bradbury responded to, which he fully describes in the story, depicts flying insects with the heads of men trying to escape a walled and partitioned enclosure where they are being eaten by a large red crab-like crea-ture. What work, if any, this particular image is designed to illustrate not been discovered, but Folon did illustrate Kafka’s The Metamorphosis, and no doubt there are allusions here to that quintessential tale of modernity in the fact that Bradbury recognized his own head and eyes in that of the insects. We don’t know what was to happen in the middle section of Bradbury’s story; however, the man in the story, Charles Simmons, is murdered, and grasshopper like in-sects are found in the room with his body. While the theme of metamorpho-sis is widespread in reverie, it is usually a kind of self-transformative happiness that is actively sought, and not, as here, imposed on the dreaming subject.

06. Houses

In this grouping of ten fragments, I wanted to present the essentials of Bradbury’s long literary involvement in houses as a place of imaginative refuge. Bradbury has vivid memories of the houses he lived in as a child, and especially the boarding house maintained by his grandmother from the time Bradbury was six years old. We must distinguish however the house of memory—the actual houses that gave Bradbury his first sense of inwardness and interiority—from the ones he imagined, what Bachelard calls the oneiric house: “The house of memory, the house of our birth, is built over the crypt of the oneiric house. Within the crypt we find the root, the bonds, the depth, the fathomlessness of dreams.”20 Furthermore this house has an archetypal structure: modern architecture may create different shapes and spaces, but Bachelard insists that the house retains its potency as a vertical image, with the cellar as its root, the kitchen or pantry, and living rooms in between, and bedrooms and the attic on top (with a nest on the roof, sometimes). As an image, the house appeals to our sense of centrality and verticality, offering us the illusion of stability.2101–05. What Bradbury does is to create a synthesis of memory and imagina-tion in these fragmentary passages. In “The Cellar, The Attic, The Pantry,” Bradbury dreams the archetype of the house and the oneiric cellar “dug out


of primeval earth.” Undoubtedly there are memories here of winemaking and food preserving that took place in his grandparents’ house, but the passage, like the cellar, goes much deeper than memory. To open the door of this cellar is to open the “lid of a dark grave.” Like all of Bradbury’s favorite images, the house is ambivalent. It is both a place of refuge and a place of fear. In 02, the next fragment, we find a man who imagines that the house is watching him. This confirms that for the imagination anything that offers illumination or reflected images can also be imagined actively as watching us. In 03, “Long After Midnight,” we are treated a poetic description of the sounds, moist or dry, that a house keeps to itself and that we are normally too busy to notice during the day (a technique of defamiliarization as the Russian formalists would say). But the old man in the wheelchair, practically a mummy himself, can hear them and fear. The description of the boarding house in 04 is good example of how reverie exaggerates the images provided by memory and sensa-tion.22 The paprika dust, which properly belongs in the kitchen, has spread throughout the house and mingled with other pervading dusts from other seasons, including the dust “(most impossible of all), from snowflakes.” In 05, too, the house is again permeated with an almost magical dust that emanates from the kitchen, like flour, but it seems have more sinister connotations to the visitors mentioned at the end, and indeed a small child in a crib in the back room is described as having “dry stone eyes.”06–08. These are all earlier versions of a story that became one of Bradbury’s most celebrated and most widely anthologized: “There Will Come Soft Rains” (originally published in Collier’s in 1950 and adapted in 1953 by EC Comics; now included in The Martian Chronicles). In the published story Bradbury creates a situation in which the illusion of security and comfort traditionally provided by houses is destroyed in a nuclear holocaust. The story undoubt-edly reflects the anxieties of the Cold War period. The house is modern and futuristic, equipped with all sorts of mechanical devices designed to provide comfort to its inhabitants, and to run itself automatically. The fragments show that as the story developed Bradbury added more and more detail to this au-tomatic behavior, creating more and more levels of surreal irony from the fact that the house, which has survived the attack, now goes on trying to provide its comforts without knowing that the inhabitants have been vaporized, their shadows burned into the side of the house by the flash of the bomb. Fragment 06 specifically shows the house before the attack acting as a “good house” by providing the illusion of refuge and comfort while the world trembles. Some of the phrasing and metaphors of fragments 07 and 08, which take place during or after the attack, ended up in the final version—especially the key reference to “mechanical paranoia” which motivates the protective behavior of the house—but the notion of the house as a frustrated lover was dropped.


09–10. The House of Sighs is a true fragment of a lost work. Apparently in 1986 Bradbury was working on a novel project called Falling Upwards, from which this page, numbered 143, has survived (see bibliography). At any rate this apparently abandoned house is nearly allegorical and almost gothic in inspiration, its ancient paint compared to chain mail. As the house always has something to say about the seasons of human suffering and loss in the past, this is clearly a house of memory. By contrast, fragment 10 wonderfully describes the ruin of a city where fragments and ghosts of the oneiric house are reappearing, especially in the images of cellars, but the distinction between the upper and lower worlds is gone, leaving houses that only seem to be houses.

07. Seasons

Bradbury’s imagination is deeply imbued with a sense of climate, of time and place. In this section and the next I wanted to foreground Bradbury’s involve-ment with archetypal seasonal imagery. Seasonal imagery in literature has long been understood previously as organizing different mythoi, or plots. Thus, in Northrop Frye’s enormously influential study, The Anatomy of Criticism, each season is aligned with a literary genre: comedy with spring, romance with summer, tragedy with autumn, and satire with winter.23 However, just as Bradbury’s imagination is drawn to all the four elements, it is also drawn to reveries of the four seasons, which may interact in any one passage, making the creative mixing of genres in Bradbury almost inevitable. In several of these fragments, children experience the passage of seasonal time, their abundance of energy lending rapidity and a special poignancy to each season’s passing.01. I suppose that if there were one seasonal holiday that predominates in Bradbury’s imagination it would be October’s Halloween, with all of its at-tendant masking and scary festivities. Bradbury has traced the history of this holiday in The Halloween Tree.24 Already in this passage we can see that the spring apple trees are made to bloom (pop) and bear fruit quickly, so as to be eaten by young energetic children. In fact, spring, summer and winter are all contained in one sentence, and the apples made to provide a Christmas spec-tacle. However, the passage lingers on the pleasures of autumn, and it clearly performs a variation on the many real Halloweens Bradbury doubtless has enjoyed. The making of the costume seems rooted in real childhood rituals. The Bat referred to at the end of the passage is Mary Roberts Rineheart’s play The Bat, a production of which Bradbury saw a young age (see bibliography, Folder 29; “Tonight You Are the Bat” contains a fictionalized account of see-ing this play), which was one of the inspirations for Bob Kane’s Batman.


02. This all summer in an hour passage is all one sentence interweaving chil-dren’s voices (the loom metaphor is repeated in Bradbury’s Dandelion Wine) into a textual pattern of burgeoning spring sensations. The children want to interweave their experiences further by telling them to each other.03. The mention of the old woman with the twin children, one boy, one girl, living in a cottage near a forest within range of an almost magical well, and searching for herbs—all these are unmistakable signs of the fairy tale genre. However, this fragment is also a variation on the making of dandelion wine so lovingly described in Bradbury’s book by that title. And it has much the same psychological function: creating a medicine for melancholy. The elixir will be stored in crystal bottles in the frog-dark cellar, just as dandelion wine is stored, as a remedy against the irony and pain of winter.04. In this autumnal page of fragments, both describing socially real and frus-trating adult worlds, there is apparently no escape from suffering. We don’t know what Bradbury may have intended to do with the Beddoes poem, but Thomas Lovell Beddoes (1803–1849), author of Death’s Jest Book, was renowned for his interest in death and the macabre. The poem Bradbury mentions is one telling of a strange beauty and ease—a reverie of repose—that descends one night in which nature herself withdraws her fangs and man “Has let his ghost out, put his thoughts aside/And lent his senses unto death himself.”05. This passage describes a chilly winter morning, apparently Christmas, in which a young woman remembers the snowman she has built outside the house and the danger that the sun poses to it. But the fact that she is just wak-ing up indicates the climate of reverie. We often find Bradbury’s characters discovering ways to deal with their loneliness, and learning how to make their pleasures last in a world which seems bent on destroying them, through ob-ject reveries, and here Bradbury’s creates a ball of yarn to be unraveled slowly throughout the day (the only good day of the year). In the second paragraph, it becomes clear that she cares more about the snowman she has constructed that any tinseled joys Christmas may bring her. The climates, summer and winter, clash, as she thinks about the sunrise, and we are left to imagine what reveries she may have had in making her snowman.

08. Space Travel

01–02. Both Crusade and The Space War were novel concepts Bradbury was considering in the mid and late 1940s. These pages probably derive from them. As such, they are steeped in pulp sf images and ideas. The idea of a religious crusade to find God—and to make humanity immortal—in outer


space certainly did not originate with Bradbury (Octavia Butler’s The Parable of the Sower is the most recent examination of the motivation of space travel by religious myth), but Bradbury sets his more literary vision in archetypal springtime on “the green meadows of earth.” The reference to “psychologi-cal pestilences” after a war is probably an allusion to H. G. Wells’ Things to Come. In the second fragment, although space itself is recognized as a dread-ful “silent nothingness,” Bradbury manages to imagine his war in space as a festival of fireworks, a human holiday. Seeing the epic (and often grandiose) images of earlier space travel narrative in terms of earthly carnival was one of the main characteristics of Bradbury’s early style, which was commented on by Henry Kuttner in the very first issue of The Bradbury Review.03–05. These fragments represent three attempts to “poeticize” space travel through the use of the human imagination. Space—which is an abstraction in scientific thought—has to be experienced in human terms, inhabited, if it is to be written about. “Thistle-Down and Fire” points out the temporal para-dox in all human experience, even that as extreme as space travel: it has to be lived through first, and then remembered. In the present we are like the seed of a thistle plant, blown about on rocket winds, clearly an autumnal image looking forward to old age, but also suggesting rebirth. The next passage, 04, raises the question of naming this experience of space travel in human terms in order to understand it. Through an array of titles, including a reference to The Crystal Palace, originally erected in Hyde Park, London, to house the Great Exhibition of 1851 that displayed examples of the latest technology de-veloped in the Industrial Revolution, Bradbury catalogs the human response to outer space. This crystal palace image found its way into the literature of modernity though Dostoevsky’s The Underground Man.25 The point of Bradbury’s catalog is that we cannot capture in human lan-guage the unrepresentable depths of space. But “The Long Midnight” evinces in my opinion the best of these fragmentary attempts to realize the wrench-ing experience of being torn away from the earth. The expression “teeming and incredible earth” is reminiscent of the phrasing of Thomas Wolfe, whom Bradbury thought the best novelist to write about space (see his story “For-ever and the Earth,” originally published in 1950 in Planet Stories and col-lected in Long After Midnight). The character, Leonard Sumter, is filled with authentic terror and dread when these earthly reveries are no longer available.06–08. In these two passages Bradbury imagines space through the experi-ence of extended falling. They are both variations of a theme that would reach publication with “Kaleidoscope” (Thrilling Wonder Stories, 1949; collected in The Illustrated Man), one of the catalog names for space travel Bradbury offers us in fragment 04. Although he is clearly dealing with pulp images and situ-ations in these passages, Bradbury is going beyond what would be expected


of a pulp writer to imagine space travel as a kind existential and primordial encounter that tears away inauthentic behavior.26 As a cosmic image, human reality becomes a leaf falling from a dark tree. By contrast there is no dread evoked by Bradbury’s spaceship, the Witch, because it has no human being inside. It’s mechanical, but magical too—its metal tentacular arms are capable of doing magic tricks—and it navigates the “big darkness” with ease. Through a reverie of metal Bradbury finds a way to inhabit space, but without a human subject. In terms of compositional dating, this may be the earliest passage in the grouping (1948?) but I have placed it last for thematic contrast.09. “The Venusian Chronicles” is obviously meant to evoke the colonization of the planet Mars depicted in The Martian Chronicles (1950). But because of the constant rainfall, the colonizers do not stay long on Venus, not more than fifty years. Much of the excellent poetic description of The Prelude here has to do with the invasive impact of the Venusian climate, which saturates, discolors, and deadens everything human, creating a permanent mood of sad-ness. Chapter One focuses on the attempts of an ordinary man, Edward Link, to cope with the alien landscape by creating an artificial indoor world. The brightly colored clothing that he wears suggests a clown-like appearance. The intention is probably satirical, given that the Gardener and The Umbrella Man in the next fragment are character sketches of people hoping to make a fortune on Venus by selling what they think people will need. Both characters speak in their own optimistic voices about their plans. Given the severity of the weather on Venus, their hopes are meant to seen ridiculous and even ra-pacious (the Gardener would sell super-sized lawnmowers and enough weed killer to exterminate all plant life). These characters are further variations on the opportunistic and greedy Sam Parkhill in The Martian Chronicles, who sets up a hot dog stand on a lonely Martian highway to exploit the new world. Bradbury would explore the intense dehumanizing effects of the Venusian climate in “Death-by-Rain” (Planet Stories, 1950), later collected as “The Long Rain” in The Illustrated Man.10. Like the business minded individuals hoping to make money on Venus, in this fragment we can read how Bradbury transposed his beloved carnival images to another planet, as, down on their luck, two carnival entrepreneurs set about trying to get their carnival going by playing Hearts and Flowers, a tune that has come to symbolize all that is melodramatic, sentimental, and mock tragic, on the calliope.


09. Mars

The Martian Chronicles (1950) is Bradbury’s acknowledged masterpiece of sci-ence fiction. The text of this work however has changed over the years, so that now there are several versions available. One can still find the classic Bantam printing, but the hardcover Morrow edition of 2006 (reprinting the Avon) omits “Way in the Middle of the Air” and includes “The Fire Balloons.” It is not my purpose here to raise the issue of textual instability in this work, but over the years since its publication, Bradbury has considered it an open work and has never finished updating and revising it. However, the overall pattern of military expeditions, then civilian colonization has remained stable, with an atomic war destroying Earth in the last section so that the survivors in effect become the new Martians. These fragments all represent various the-matic possibilities in the expedition and colonization sections of The Martian Chronicles.01. One of the themes of The Martian Chronicles is the loss of identity some colonists would feel as they settled into the alien landscape, trying to preserve their memories and patterns of living from Earth. Bradbury’s talent for exis-tential imagery is very much in evidence in the little white cottage that Cora and her husband build on Mars, with the “folded Boston paper, hot from the rocket trip across space,” fluttering in the Martian wind on the porch. Despite these comforts from home, the husband remarks that he feels like a salt crys-tal in a mountain stream being washed away.02. This passage sets up a reverie of meditative pleasure in work. The Martian landscape, once considered a planet of blue terrors and ancient threats, has been made to yield up a bounty of reverie through human will working the land. Saul Willem feels the very sweetness of the land as “mellowness distilled itself through his thoughtful bones.” All seems peaceful in this harvest of im-ages; indeed, it seems a continuation of his ancestors’ tillage on Earth, until a voice interrupts his reverie. Perhaps the voice is that of a disinherited Mar-tian, and the “neighbor” is meant to be taken ironically.03–07. These fragments all have to do with children in the Martian land-scape, a theme that Bradbury uses sparingly in the published versions of The Martian Chronicles—but with great effect in the last story “The Million Year Picnic.” Fragment 03 “The Children” describes a scene in which children are swimming and playing in the Martian canals observed by an adult who is apparently not a parent. The children do not know that an atomic war has destroyed the life they knew on earth. I imagine from the physical descrip-tion that the servant woman called Leonora at the end may be a Martian, or perhaps Mexican. Fragments 04–05 are pieces of a story about a Mexican boy,


Philippe De La Vega, who is haunted at night by a man claiming to be his father. The images of the ghostly man, his face a “dazzle of mist,” effectively suggest both reality and dream, so we do not know if the man is an illusion. Fragments 06–07 are story variants that tell of a lost Martian robot, perhaps a toy, hidden in the sands of Mars. In 06, we read of three men searching for it; in 07 we see that children have discovered this precious bejeweled reverie object in the recesses of a Martian well.08–10. These fragments all draw on the carnival system of images that struc-tures much of Bradbury’s published writing.27 In 08, we witness a bitter dis-agreement between two clowns, Poirot and Francion, about coming to Mars to find a new audience. Mars being a dead planet, there is apparently no one for which to perform. Fragments 09 and 10 describe the Martian resistance to the invasion. Fragment 09 provides a description of the Martians setting up their carnival to destroy the Earthmen. The setup is nearly magical—tent chairs spring out of discs in the hands of the Martians—and gothic, for the tent flaps are compared to the membranaceous wings of a bat. Fragment 10 describes the illusion that the Martian carnival will use to destroy the Earth-men: their own lost youth. The theme/image of entrapment in a narcissistic mirror structures one of Bradbury’s most Freudian stories, “The Dwarf,” (col-lected in The October Country) and is at the heart of Bradbury’s dark carnival novel, Something Wicked This Way Comes.Figure Four describes the Fourth of July on Mars. It’s a collective reverie of the endless summer night sky of Mars, as the spectators, at various social lev-els, await whatever the “set-piece” is, presumably fireworks. These immense spaces do not frighten (as Pascal perceived them to be), but rather offer the pleasures of reverie in explosive images to come. The figure Bradbury has drawn is clearly expressing joy.

Figure Transcriptions

Figure 1 She smelled like a lemon and she smelled like cinnamon and bone dust, that was Grammy. The town people turned their children another direction when she passed. She was the recipient of stiff nods from people walking alone. She lived in her house with a crystal chandelier, a tired dog who slept 24 hours a day, and a gramophone that played WHERE DID ROBINSON CRUSOE GO WITH FRIDAY ON SATURDAY NIGHT, sung by Al Jol-son and recorded during the first world war. [illeg]


Figure 2 It was a small summer town where the court house clock when it struck the hour sent iron vibrations out to rattle the slate roofs and the black towers, the Chinese glass bells hung with the mosquitoes on the warm air, the ice in the cool lemonade glasses on dark porches, the crystal ear-rings on fat ladies lobes and the children suspended screaming in the night elms. And into the town with a creaking rattle this midsummer night rolled the MEDICINE SHOW, with Mr. Bleak kissing the horses rumps with the reins in his big hands. He looked around and winked at the streetlights, with evil gayety.

Figure 3 Where the cool cold smell of water came up between stone walls to where the boy lay listening. Above him the forest, beyond him the pathed meadows, under him the deep echoes and the image of himself lying under the waters on a summers day. Hello, he called, and hello again, until the water moved. At night he thought of that boy, under the water, cool and secret.

FOURTH OF JULY

They looked up into the sky. They brought their dinners onto the stone patios overlooking the canals and they sat, the women in their long thin gowns and the men in their plain simple uniforms and conversed quietly, while keeping track of the time. The sky was very clear and not a wind was blowing. It was a good summer night for the set-piece. Even now, in the towns of Mars, the lights were going out as the poorer people crammed the last food into their mouths and hurried out to sit on the roofs of their stone huts or lie in the thick green grass, on their backs, staring again and again at the deep endless space of the sky. The stars were very clear.

Notes

1. For discussion, see the essays collected by Werner Sollers in The Return of The-matic Criticism (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1993). 2. For discussion of the reversible symbolic code of the body in texts, see Roland Barthes, S/Z, Translated by Richard Miller (New York: Hill and Wang: 1974), 19, 214–15, 262–26. 3. Mikhail Bakhtin, Rabelais and His World, Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1984, 240–41. 4. See The Collected Poems of Ray Bradbury, New York: Ballantine, 1982, 25–26.


5. For discussion of this cultural crisis in general, see Richard Kearney, The Wake of Imagination: Toward a Postmodern Culture, London: Routledge, 1998; for the death of the imagination in Bradbury, see my entry in Modern Fantasy Writers, edited by Harold Bloom, New York: Chelsea House, 1995, 10–11. 6. For a discussion of the influence of carnival on Baum, see Joel D. Chaston, “Baum, Bakhtin, and Broadway: A Centennial Look At The Carnival of OZ,” in The Land Of Oz (New York: ibooks, 2001), 8–37. 7. Tension and its release are basic principles of our response to fiction. See Simon O. Lesser, Fiction and the Unconscious, New York: Vintage Books, 1957, 44. 8. For an account, see Sarah Lawall, Critics of Consciousness, (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1968), 141–64. 9. Jean-Pierre Richard, “The Creation of Form in Flaubert,” in Flaubert, edited by Raymond Giraud (Englewood Cliffs, N. J.: Prentice-Hall, 1964), 47–51. Richard discusses Flaubert’s attraction to water as an “aquatic complex.” 10. Anyone wishing an overview of the writings I have mentioned here should consult On Poetic Imagination and Reverie, Selections from the Works of Gaston Bache-lard, Translated by Colette Gaudin (Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill, 1971). I have keyed some of the discussion below to relevant passages in Bachelard’s writings. 11. Arnold Hauser, The Social History of Art, Volume Two, (New York: Vintage Books, 1957), 176–77. 12. The textual history of this story has been carefully studied. See The Collected Stories of Ray Bradbury, Volume One (1938–1943), edited by William F. Touponce and Jonathan R. Eller (Kent, Ohio: The Kent State University Press, 2010), 379–80. 13. See Ben Jones, Matchbox Cover Design, dissertation, The University of Reading, 2004, 6). 14. Viktor Shklovsky, “Art as Technique,” in Russian Formalist Criticism, translated by Lee T. Lemon and Marion J. Reis (Lincoln: The University of Nebraska Press, 1965), 12. 15. Gaston Bachelard, Earth and Reveries of Will, translated by Kennth Haltman (Dallas: The Dallas Institute: 2002), 250–51. 16. Bachelard wrote an entire chapter on images of mud in literature, and in the process countered the disgust with viscosity he found in Sartre’s Nausea with happier images; Bachelard, Earth and Reveries of Will, 59, 61–62, 80–101. 17. See my article, “Some Aspects of Surrealism in the Work of Ray Bradbury,” Extrapolation, Vol. 25, No. 3, Fall 84, 228–38. 18. See discussion in Earth and Reveries of Will, 250–61. 19. Bradbury’s Introductions are in Folon’s Folons (New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1990), 15–19, and in Folon Florence (Milan: Skira Editore, 2005), 37–39. The Martian Chronicles with watercolors by Folon was produced by Olivetti in 1979 in a limited edition of 100 copies. 20. Gaudin, 98–100. 21. Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space, Translated by Maria Jolas (Boston: Bea-con Press, 1964), 17. 22. Bachelard, The Poetics of Space, 219. 23. Northrop Frye, The Anatomy of Criticism (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1957), 131–239. 24. See my afterword to The Halloween Tree (Hornsea, UK: PS Publishing, 2008), 107–16.


25. For his part, Bachelard amply demonstrates how crystalline reverie can lead to constellations of images in all the elements and to cosmic imaginings of the infinite. Earth and Reveries of Will, 230–31. 26. See Martin Heidegger, Being and Time, Translated by Joan Stambaugh (Al-bany: SUNY Press, 1996), 164–68. 27. On the use of carnival concepts in The Martian Chronicles, see Ray Bradbury: The Life of Fiction (Kent, Ohio: The Kent State University Press, 2004), 140–41.

list oF bradbury story Fragments 85

The Albright Collection:Bradbury Story Fragments

COMpILED BY DONN ALBRIgHT, JON ELLER, AND DIANA DIAL REYNOLDS

The following entries offer a general classification and preliminary inventory for the many thousands of fragment pages known to exist. Although this listing is a work-in-progress, it nevertheless offers a glimpse of the vast array of subjects and images that (for the most part) never evolved beyond an opening paragraph or a single page of composition. Most of the Bradbury fragments inventoried here were composed during the 1940s and 1950s, although some survive from later decades. The type and condition of paper is noted where it is relevant to dating. Fragments typed on the versos of Abbey Rents corporate form-letters (Maggie Bradbury’s employer from 1947 to 1949) are so indicated.

I. Titled Fragments in titled folders:

“Acid-Clean Man, The.” (folder title). 2 pp. (similar to the published story “The Watchers”).

“Actor’s World, The.” 4 pp. Ribbon copy with AMS corrections. 2 pp. are Ab-bey Rents versos, 2 pp. are mid-late 1940s lightweight yellow wove paper.

“All-Hallows Family, The.” Variant titles: “The Hallowe’en Family,” “The Octo-ber Family.” 2 pp. plus title page.

“All of Us Be Sculptors of Men,” written above original typed title, “The Bitter and the Better.” 22 May 1955. 2 pp. plus title page.

“An Evil Man Has an Easy Job.” 19 Aug. 1955. 2 pp. plus title page.“An Old Story But New.” A Short Novel by Ray Bradbury. 2 pp. plus title page.“And Machinery Was His Name.” (folder title). “Machinery Was Her Name”

(two title pages) 2 pp.; “Machinery Was His Name” 1 p. plus title page; two earlier fragment pages.

85


“And Tom Core, What of Him?” Article. 1 p.“Another Love Story.” 3 pp. 17 May 1953.“Apollo / Adolis Transcendant.” 1 p. Folder: 29 Jun. 1977. Article.“Archaeologist, The.” 2 pp. 2 Jul. 1956.“Arms of the Venus De Milo, The.” 6 pp. plus title page.“As Friend Remembered Not.” 4 pp. plus title page. Quotation from As You

Like It (“Freeze, freeze thou bitter sky”).“Ask the Man Who Owns One.” (folder title). “A story about Skipper.” “Next

Time Ask the Man Who Owns One.” Only one line; then a list of Brad-bury radio recordings borrowed by Bill Nolan, 21 Mar. 1952.

“Atmospheres, Ltd.” 2 pp. plus title page. Undated.“Attic.” 3 pp. plus title page 23–24 Apr. 1984.“Attic Place, The.” 10 Oct. 1970. 3 pp. yellow paper; 4 pp. ribbon copy variant

fragment; “The Attic.” 1 p.; 1 p. from Leviathan 99; “The Attic.” 2 pp. plus title page.

“Attic, The.” 29 Mar. 1955. 2 pp. plus title page.“Avalanche, The.” A short novel by Ray Bradbury. 22 Dec. 1961. 2 pp. plus

title page.“Backward Life.” (folder title). 2 pp. ribbon with AMS corrections. “Back-

ward O Backward Time in Thy Flight.” 1967. Possibly an antecedent of “The Toynbee Convector.”

“Barracuda Syndrome, The.” Folder: R. Morrison story June 1965. 2 pp. plus title page.

“Baskerville Finds, The.” 2 pp. different openings; 1 p. related poems and nonce typing; 1 p. from same typing with lines of the Emily Dickinson and Charles Dickens poem.

“Batteries Not Included.” 1 p. Dec. 1983.“Beautiful Child, The.” 3 pp. carbon plus title page.“Beautiful Lady, The.” 7 July 1954 (folder). 3 pp. plus title page.“Beautiful Nose, The.” 2 pp. filed with “Hold Everything,” 3 pp. plus title

page, with annotation “Goes home and pulls phone out by the roots!”“Beautiful Ugly Man, The” and “Manoletes Footprints!” (folder). “The Fine

Afternoon.” 1 p. (Huston told the story in Paris, 1953); “The Face of the Defeated.” 1 p.

“Bed in the Center of the Room, The.” 1 p. early yellow paper, c. 1945.“Bedtime Story, A.” 2 pp. ribbon copy with cartoon marginalia, versos of Ab-

bey Rents paper.“Beek’s Mother-in-Law” and “Streeter Blair.” (folder titles). “Beek’s Mother-

in-Law” 1951. “Woman becomes her dreadful dead mother over the years.” 2 pp. plus title page. “Streeter Blair: The Good Life, the Fine Bread.” 1 p.

“Better Late Than Never.” 25 Sep. 1990.


“Bettina” or “The Last One.” 3 pp. plus title page. 5 Sep. 1960.“Beware the Jabberwock, My Son.” 2 pp. with AMS closing comments: “The

animals are only in his brain” fragment of “Pterodactyl.”“Birds, The.” 16 Sep. 1958. 3 pp. plus title page.“Black Sambo Cleaning Company, The.” title page: “Not so Black Sambo!

The excellent and otherwise cleanup service par excellence.” 4 pp. (3rd p. is holograph).

“Blackmail Man, The.” 2 pp., second page is the conclusion. May 1950. Ar-ticle on The Bookman’s Notebook, by Joseph Henry Jackson.

“Blessed Are the Children.” (folder title). 7 pp. Folder comment: “Machine put men in child body—and forget death” title page: “Machine to put man’s [mind] in children’s body for a day to enjoy life without mortality.” 20 Apr. 1955. “Melissa Toad, Witch” (1 p.); story notes about Mars (1 p.).

“Book, The.” 4 pp, / “Day of the Dead” 2 pp. / and “Hallowe’en” 2 pp.“Brave New World.” screenplay. 1 p. plus title page.“Breakfast, Lunch and Dinner.” 5 pp. plus title page. 13–14 Jul. 1951. “Breath of Air.” 3 pp. plus title page. 11 Apr. 1960.“Breath of Air, A.” 8 pp. plus title page (annotated with preliminary chapter

titles and plot incident). 2 Feb. 1951.“Burnt People, The.” 3 pp. with doodle; 1 p. plus title page. 7 Jul. 1954.“Butcher, Baker, Candlestick Maker—novel outline.” 3 pp. 12 Apr. 1953; 1 p.

related fragment opening.[“But his hand would crawl…”]. 1 p. photocopy. c. 1952–53.“Call Me Captain Nemo!” and “Captain Nemo, to You!” 4 pp. plus title page.

2 Jun. 1983.“Camera Obscura.” 3 pp. plus title page. 22 Oct. 1960. “A Small Bright

Room”; “En Camera.” From reading “Souls Belated,” by Edith Wharton.“Carnival by Night—Mugnaini and Bradbury—book without words.” 1 p.

with 13 ideas for various illustrations.“Castle With No End, The.” 3 pp. with clipping re San Diego SF convention

1952, review of RBR and two photos of RB’s family.“Cat—Bird Haiku.” 2 pp. poem with various notations typed; personal.“Cathedral, The.” 14 Dec. 1952. 1 p. on verso of public relations company

stationery; 4 pp. plus title page of story.“Certain Look, The.” 20 Dec. 1951. 3 pp. plus title page.[“Children, The”]. 4 pp.“Chimney Sweep.” 4 pp. plus concept page and title page. 21 Feb. 1983.“Chocolate Party, The.” 2 pp.“Choose Your Poison.” 2 pp. plus title page. “A story of psychiatrist who

threatens to kill himself if his clients double their fees.”“Cinema, The.” 1 p. photocopy.


“Cistern.” 2 pp. A “Cecy” story (“Homecoming” character).“Cistern.” 3 pp. Unrelated to published story. 2 Mar. 1946.“City of Dreadful Night, The.” 1 p.; “Forboding,” 1 p. title page. Folder note:

“Elephant Plus.” Stationery Weston Hotel (Tulsa) 28 Jun. 1989.“Colored Windows.” 1 p. plus concept page. “Panes of glass for our future liv-

ing room. . . throwing colors on a white rug.” 10 Mar. 1949. Story intended for Dark Carnival.

“Comeuppance Time.” 2 pp. plus title page. 5 Sep. 1965. About Bill Arno and Waukegan days.

“Comic Strip Idea.” (Don Congdon letter, p. 2). 1 p. Aug. 1963.“Confession, The.” 24 Dec. 1983. 1 p. plus title page. “Conscience.” 4 pp. yellow paper (two are Abbey rents versos), including con-

cept penciled on first page, “Robot kills all of them, after they try to abuse him.” Martian graveyard fragment also. c. late 1940s.

“Cop to Fit the Corpse. A.” 6 pp. on brown paper with AMS corrections. c. late 1940s.

“Cops and Their Corpse, The.” 2 pp. Broman detective story. Yellow paper, c. 1944–45.

“Cowboy, The.” 3 pp. includes two sketches (The Cowboy and Ghost Town) on first page, then continuous fragment on final 2 pp.

“Cuckoo’s Book Club, The.” 3 pp. with drawings verso. 1960 article, with actual book club brochure (Guide to professional literature).

“Cycle of Earth—Tijuana Rosarita Beach.” 1 Sep. 1954. 1 p. containing first and paragraphs of “The Earthen Cycle”: “driving back from Rosarita Beach to Tijuana, this idea occurred among the hills.”

“Dali S-story | “He Runs in Beauty.” (folder title). “The One Thousand Mous-taches of Salvador D.” 2 pp. plus title page; “He Runs in Beauty, Like the Night.” 2 pp.; title paraphrases Byron.

“Dark Is the Name.” (novel). 3 pp and title page: prologue, contents, list of books.“Dark Years, The.” (novel of the future). 2 pp. synoptic outline in five chapters.

This is a variation on Where Ignorant Armies Clash by Night. c. 1947–49.“David and Anna.” 3 pp., including 2 pp. mini-story and 1 p. background

paragraph. “Day, The.” 3 pp. ribbon copy, c. 1950.“Day the Weeping Wouldn’t Stop, The.” (folder title). 3 pp. plus title page,

dated 4 Jun. 1983; 3 pp. titled “When the Weeping Stopped”; 2 pp. frag-ments.

“Day That Paris Stopped, The.” First of three title pages: “The Day That Paris Stopped” (screenplay); “The Whiskey Armada” (story); “Squire McKenny-Bates and the Great Sahara Desert Funeral Wake, or, You Can Take It With You, If You Try,” 23 Aug. 1981.


“Dead But Not Buried.” (novel). 1 p. “Dear Ugliness” and Misc.—1962. 1 p. “The Dear Ugliness” dated 14 Feb.

1962; 1 p. on the baroque of fire dated Jul. 30 1957; 1 p. title page: “The Lion”; “The Wonderful Windows of Mr. Wu: a story for watchful chil-dren” | “The Elegant Earfuls of Adelbert E.” 1 p. holograph, notes for story titled “Winky”; 1 p. for “Mr. and Mrs. Smith” (untitled).

“Death Machine, The.” (folder title). 3 pp. plus title page. titled “The Ma-chine.”

“Death of Venus.” “…based on a conversation with Mary Holmes, Saturday night, July 29th, 1961...” 1 p.

“Delayed Action.” (folder title). 3 pp. old paper, c. 1949.“Dependence Day.” (folder title). 1 p. 26 Jan. 1972. [“Diary of Melita Harris.”] (folder title). 3 pp. A novel in seventeen chapters

(1944).“Did I Do That to You?” (folder title). 2 pp. plus title page. Palm Springs 7

Sep. 1996.“Dinosaur Machine, The.” (folder title). Folder note: Dec. 1960, for Boy’s Life.

“His name was Thunder or Thunderlizard,” 2 pp.; “The Fine Foulweather” (article), 1 p.; a letter from Boy’s Life editors, dated 23 Nov. 1960; “The Thunder Lizard,” 2 pp. plus 2 title pages.

“Dinosaur Machine, The.” (folder title). June 1973; Novella. Letter from Rita Gelman, 25 Oct. 1973; 5 pp; Contents page for novella plus 3 pp.

“Dog.” (folder title); Short Story; 4 July 1983; 1 p. plus title page.[“Don’t Ever Come Back.”] (folder title); 1 p.“Dore.” Film documentary; (folder title); Feb. 1973; 1 p. “Dore”; 1 p. “Well

Done Young Man” in folder “Well Done”; 2 pp.“Dream, The.” Playboy picture story; (folder title); April 1972; “The Dream: A

Story Based on a Picture by Folon”; April 1972; 3 pp. plus title page; Also transparency of paper collage.

“Drome Facht Elevator, The.”; short story; “Octomen.” 1950 (folder title); Dec. 1977; 2 pp.

“Double Whammy.” (folder title); Play; Feb 1977; 7 pp.“Dust of Others, The.” (folder title); 1 p.“Dust People, The.” (folder title); 1960s; 1p.“Dwarf Who Changed His Mind, The.” (folder title); 12 July 1952; 1 p.“Dying Man Changes Name Lives!” (folder title); 1950s? 1 p.“Epstein’s Farewell Address!” (folder title); 30 April 1973; “Benny Dilberg’s

Farewell Address”; 5 pp. plus several blank and small note paper with Stu-dio City address.

“Empathy Machine, The.” (folder title); Started 17 Jan. 1953; 3 pp. plus title page.


“Erosion of Mighty Waters, The.”; “Colored Man Buys or Wants to Buy Car”; “Tempted-Finally accepts Ride-Feels His World Shift as a Result” (folder title); July 1956; 3 pp. plus title page plus 2 blank pp.

“Esthetics.” (folder title); Jan. 1952; 1 p. Side of folder: 4/29/85.“Extra Boy, The.” (folder title); 2 pp.“Eye Blinded, The Soul Set to Rest, The.” (folder title); 26 Dec. 1959; Front of

folder: New Work, Nov. 1978 and Old work From 1959; 3 pp.; “To Blind the Eye, To Rest the Soul” 26 Dec. 1959 1 p.; “The Eye Blinded, The Soul Set to Rest” 26 Dec. 1959 4 pp. plus title page.

“Fabulous Land, The.”; (folder title); a novel; July 1952; one information page (chapter titles); 3 pp. plus title page

“Face in the Deep.” (folder title); 1952; 20th Century Fox; 19 Nov. 1952; 8 pp. plus title page.

“Fall of the Sparrow, The.” (folder title); 2 pp.“Falling Man, The.” (folder title); 2 pp. plus title page 1950s.“Falling, Man, The!” “Huston’s Old Man Who Died in Seven Languages!”

(folder title); story idea 11 Mar; 1 p. “Encounter” (Dublin) 22 Nov. 1953; 2 pp.“Falling of the Trees, The.” (folder title); 1 p. plus title page.“Falling Trees, The.” (folder title); “The Falling of the Trees” 2 pp.“Fat Man Gets Thin, The.” (folder title); story, 1 p.“Fay Wray, King Kong, Dracula, Et Al I Love You!” (folder title); 1 p.“Festa Roma” (folder title); 2 Oct. 1954; 1 p. story idea and calendar page for

2 Sept. with story idea.“Fifth Horseman, The!” (folder title); TV, 5 pp.“51 Varieties of Blackmail.” (folder title); 26 Dec. 1959; 1 p. story idea.“Fine Foul Weather, The.” (folder title); Article on Blenhem, TIVOU; Aug.

1961; 1 p. plus title page.“Find Me a Fire.” (folder title); a verse play; 3 pp. plus title pages (2).“Fiori.” “Oil and Dinosaurs.” (folder title); letter from Fiori Panas & Assoc.

1 p. plus 10 pp. of photos; 3 pp. description and more printed information on Oil Museum, 6 pp.

“Fire and Ice.” (folder title); 5 pp. plus title page with six chapter titles.“Fire Chariot, The.” (folder title); 6 pp. one “A Boy Rests.”“Fire in the Night.” (“Indian Boy, Cortez by Firelight”) 2 pp.; also: “The Fall-

ing Man.” (folder title) 1 p. plus title page.“Fire Makers, The.” (folder title); 3 pp.“First Sight.” (folder title); short story; July–Aug. 1977; 1 p. plus two-sided

holograph page.“Flatlander, The.” (folder title); 27 Apr. 1953; 4 pp.“A Flight of Demons.” (folder title); automobile paranoia story; 29 Dec. 1959;

begun 29 Nov. 1959; 2 pp. plus title page.


“Flight of Parrots.” (folder title); 1 p. holograph.“Flower Wife, The and misc.” (folder title); Jan. 1952; “A Room Without

View” 1 p. “Karpwells Pyramid” rewrite; 11 Dec. 1948; title page only; “God Bless Us, Everyone” on reverse side of “Karpwells”; 1 p.; page frag-ment of Cecy story; page fragment of “The Island”; 5 pp., 3 of them written on both sides.

“Footprint in the Sand, The.” (folder title); article on writing; 1 June 1958; 1 p. plus title page.

“Forehead, The.” (folder title); an idea from Claude Chidamian; 1949; 3 pp. plus title page.

“Found Objects.” “Lost Reasons!”10 Sept. 1986; “The Dead Dream of Being Alive; The live Dream of Being Dead” (folder title); short story; “Lost Rea-sons” 1 p. plus title page; “And the Dead Do Dream Much” 1986; 1 p. 4 misc. pages about a library; “The Wonderful Poker Chip” title page; “A Short Play” H. Matisse; 12 Aug. 1963; “The Dead Ride Fast”; “Ghosts” by Ray Bradbury; 1 p.; large sheet of paper folded with doodles; “Blue Bottle!” etc.

“Four a.m. March.” (folder title); 2 pp. plus title page.“Foursome!” (folder title); short story; “Wind, Sand, and Stars” a screenplay

based on the novel by Saint Exupery; 1 p. plus title page; “Foursome” 1 Sept. 1989; 2 pp. plus title page; “The New York World’s Fair” 1939; “Night, Remembered” an essay; 4 July; title page only; scrap of paper with hand-written notes on Foursome.

“Friend of the Family, A.” 3 pp. Folder: 28 Oct. 1959.“Friendly Hand, The.” “Boom.”; (folder title); 1 p.; “Boom” 1 p.; “Judge &

Jury” 1 p.“Funeral Child, The.” (folder title); 1 p.“Funeral Parlor.” “Department of Future Faces.” “Department of Future

Souls.” (folder title); short story; 28 July 1985; scrap of paper with holo-graph notes.

“Future Robot Sports.” (folder title); story for Sports Illustrated; Nov. 1963; letter from Sports Illustrated; 2 pp. 22 Nov. 1963.

“Game of War, The.” (folder title); “The Game” 18 Mar. 1951; 2 pp. plus title page.

“Ganahan.” (folder title); (Green House); 3 pp.“Gargoyle, The.” (folder title); 3 pp.“Gavin.” (folder title); short story; Jan. 1983; 1 p. “House Guest” story idea;

17 Jan. 1983; 3 pp.“General Grant.” “The Vatican.” and Misc. (folder title); Feb. 1953; “General

Grant, Sir” “The Vatican” 1 p. “The High Wind” 2 pp. plus title page; “The Thousand Faces of Man” 1 p., “RB” 9 Mar 1953 4 pp.; “The Elevator Shaft” 3 pp. plus title page; “The Hands” 2 pp.


“Generalissimo Milton Sperling.” (folder title); short story; 1970; “Genera-lissimo Sperling, A Short Novel” Jan. 1970, 1 p. plus title page; “Gener-alissmo Jones” an outline for a screenplay, 2 pp; Generalissimo Jones” a screenplay, 1 p. plus title page.

“Genesis ’99.” (folder title); “Genesis ’99: a Chronicle of the Ninth Day of God” 12 Dec 1963; 1 p. plus title page.

“The Geriatick Effect.” (folder title); 2 pp.; “Sunstrike VII” 1 p.; “Sun Squad Seven” 1 p.

“Giannuci’s First Horse Race.” “The Flatlanders.” & Misc. (folder title); “The Football Game” 2 pp.; “The Flatlanders” 1 p.; “A Woman” 1 p.; “Negro Spiri-tual Idea” 1 p. plus title page; “Pale Rider” 2 July 1955; 2 pp. plus title page; “A Very Fine Idea” 1 p.; “Some Sort of Code” 1 p. both sides plus title page.

“Ghost, The.” (folder title); Summer 1985; “Sam the Ghost” 10 July 1986, 4 pp. Letter from Diane Parker-Beckoff, 15 Feb. 1996.

“Ghost of Christmas Past, The.” (folder title); note; 1 p.“Good Old Summertime, The.” (folder title); a play; “The Good Old Sum-

mertime: 18 Aug. 1951; 4 pp. plus title page; 3 pp. of verse paper-clipped to “Summertime” pages.

Gourmet: “The North Pantry.” “Tomato Soup.” items, 7 June 1953; “Everyday and twice on Sundays” 3 pp. plus title page; “Drawing of Day” by Simon Wincelberg; 9 June 1951; at meeting.

“Grandma and the Robot.” (folder title); Note from Donn Albright, 1 p.“Graffiti.” (folder title); short story; 23 Dec. 1985, RB, 1 p.“Graveyard, The.” (folder title); short story; Aug. 1969, 3 pp. plus title page“Greatest Baker in the World, The.” (folder title); Jan. 1978; “The Greatest

Baker in the Whole Wide World” 2 pp.“Greatest Fight in History, The!” (folder title); 30 June 1990; 5 pp. plus title

page; “The Rocket” 1 p.“Green Galleon, The.” (folder title); 4 pp. plus title page.“Greentown, Illinois.” (folder title); Sunday comic panel idea; Feb 1961; title

page plus two pages with rectangles.“Growing Up! Venus.” (folder title); 1952, 1953; “This Man and This Woman”

a short novel; 5 pp. plus title page and Chapter page.“Guy.” story idea; (folder title); “Guy Fawke: Man Stuffed with Combust-

ables” 1 p. idea plus title page.[“Haffee—Wife Killer”]. 4 pp. “Hamlet’s Father’s Ghost Analyst.” (folder title); 3 Nov. 1978, 2 pp. plus title

page.“Happy Caboose Passenger, The.” (folder title); 1952; “The Happy Passenger”

1 p.“The Harp.” (folder title); April 1953; 4 ledger-size sheets, folded.


Henry Bergson Story Idea, (folder title); “The Watching and the Waiting or Ve-nus Observed” 1 p. plus title page; plus page 2 titled “A View of One Woman.”

“Here We Have the Mummy of Antiqufarce.” (folder title); title page only.“Hot Springs, The.” (folder title); Jan 1953; 2 pp. plus title page.“House of Many Windows.” (folder title); 2 pp.“House That owned the Dilberries, The.” (folder title); 1 p.“Hover-Ghosts!, The.” (folder title); Air Force Academy; 5 May 1989; 1 p. plus

concept page.“How Simple to Murder a Blind Man.” (folder title); 2 pp.“Howard!” (folder title); Palm Springs; 17 Apr. 1992; 1 p. plus title page.“Huckleberry Finn.” (folder title); screenplay; 5 pp. plus title page.“Hunt, The.” “The Long Winter for Witches” (folder title); Oct. 1951; 3 pp.“I Got Something You ain’t Got!” (folder title); short story; 3 pp./1 p./1 p. plus

title page.“If, Five Years from Now It was a Well-Tuned Instrument.” (folder title); 1 p.“If There Be Fools.” (folder title); 3 pp.“Impossible Woman.” (folder title); 2 pp.“In an Old Library.” (folder title); “Yuan Mei” “In An Old Library” 1 p.“In by the Window, Out by the Door.” (folder title); 3 pp. Avalanche 1 p.“In Remembrance of a Shroud.” (folder title); novel; 2 pp. plus title page.“In Search.” (folder title); (“Man Looking for One Other Man in Robot

World”); “In Search” 1 p.; outline; 21 April 1951; “Don’t Do Anything I Wouldn’t Do” 1 p.

“Insidious Bon Homie.” (folder title); 2 Feb. 1984; title page only; “An Insidi-ous Bon Homie, An Obsolete Bravado”; “A Way with Horses.”

“Incredible Beast Machine, The.” (folder title); 7 July 1977; 5 pp.; “Odd-mark’s”; odd marks on 3 pp. plus 14 pp. photocopies of drawings.

“Innisfree.” (folder title); 29 May 1984; 2 pp. plus title page.“Interview 1, 2, 3, 4” (folder title); Interview 1, 1 p.; Interview 2, 2 pp.; Inter-

view 3, 1 p.; Interview 4, 1 p.“Invisible Revolutions, The.” (folder title); 2 pp.“Isabel Camamell.” “The Lovely Mechanical Lady.” (folder title); Jan. 1956; “Is-

abel Cammamell” [sic] 4 Jan. 1956, 2 p. plus title page; “In Praise of Isabel” 2 pp. plus title page.

“Island, The.” (folder title); “The Island.” a novel; 1 p. plus title page.“Invasion Eve.” (folder title); “Invasion Eve” 5–6 June 1944; 1 p.“It Could Have Happened to Anyone.” (folder title); 1944; 5 pp.“Jackson Pollock Takes Mescalin.” (folder title); story idea; one scribble page;

“A Few Well-Chosen Words” 1 p.“Jammet!!” “The Shrieking Chef of Dublin!” (folder title); July 1971; 2 pp.

plus title page; concept written on folder “Death in Venice.”


“J. C.” (The Man Mistaken for Christ), (folder title); started in Aug. 1944; new work Aug. 1958; title page only; “Grab Bag” 2 pp.; “Man on the Road” 2 pp.

“Jekyll Zero!” (folder title); 28 Feb. 1987; AM on front of folder; “Don’t Throw Me in that Bramble Bush, Mr. Bear” 29 Dec. 1991, 1 p. plus title page; “Jekyll 0, Hyde 4; 28 Feb. 1987; title page only; “Gang Bang” 4 pp.; “Wake for the Dead” 28 Feb 1987, 1 p.

“Jerk Watertowns.” (folder title); 1 p. description.“Jets in the Sky and the Sleepers Below, The.” (folder title); 1 p.“Jimmy’s Teeth in a Glass in a Flophouse: Smile.” (folder title); 1945; “Mr.

Sam, Mr. Jimmie, Mr. Pedro” 2 pp.; “The Theatres” 1 p., both sides; “The Six” 1 p., both sides.

“June Night.” (folder title); second idea, 3 pp.“Jungle-Monkey Preview, The.” (folder title); the Apes Witch, reject film in

making ! story idea Dublin Eire 17 Dec. 1953; sneak preview 1 p.“Kelly Mountains, The.” (folder title); “The Kelly Mountains”; “The Reming-

ton Mountains”; “The Kelly Canal”; “The Remington Canal”; “The Kelly Runs”; “The Remington Runs” 5 pp. plus title page.

“Kill Relatives.” (folder title); sketch; 2 pp.; holograph text at bottom of page two; “The Yesterday Murders” on back of page one.

“Kiss of the Corpse, Kiss of the Cadaver Crone.” 3 pp. 1940s?, also dated July 1938; 4 quarter pages untitled, paper-clipped.

“Kong is Not Dead.” (folder title); 1 p. ribbon, 1 p. carbon, 2 blank.“Land of Peace and Summer, The.” (folder title); 12 July 1952; “The Land of

Peace and Summer” 1 p.“Last Tag!!” short story idea, 1 p.“Later Love, The.” (folder title); 2 pp.“Leapfrog.” (folder title); four short stories, 1983; “O.”“Library, The.” (folder title); novel, 2 pp.; “The Cistern” a short novel title

page with description; “Nemo” 1963, title page only.“Library, The.” (folder title); 4 pp. plus index card with 1947 date.“Limelight.” “Hall of Mirrors.” And story ideas, 1950–1954; “Hall of Mirrors” 2

pp.; “The Dragon’s Mouth” 1 p.; “The Gargoyle, The Aqueduct” 3 pp.; “The Birds and the Children” 1 p.; two pages of handwritten information.

“Little Things After a Long Journey, The,” or “The Camel’s Back.” (folder title); Nov. 1965, 2 pp.

“Long Tunnel, The.” (folder title); 3 pp.“Longest Parade in the World, The.” (folder title); 29 June 1954, 1 p. plus title

page; “Ninety Minutes in Paris” 1 p. plus title page; “The Longest Parade in World” 14 June 1953, 4 pp. plus title page.

“Longest Story in the World.” (folder title); Dec. 1958; “The Longest Novel in the World” 26 Jan 1959, 2 pp. plus title page.


“Love and Love Again.” (folder title); 2 pp. plus title page.“Love Story.” (folder title); 1 p.“Machine for Living.” (folder title); 2 pp. plus title page.“Mafia 4 Writers!” short story, 2 pp.“Make Haste Slowly.” (folder title); One act play; 23 March 1956, 3 pp.“Maker of Trails, The.” (folder title); 5 pp.“Man is in Love and Loves What Vanishes.” (folder title); 11 Nov. 1959; “The

Fire Balloon” 27 Nov. 1959, 9 pp.; “The Balloon” 1 May 1948, 5 pp. with holograph corrections and title page; “Man is in Love, And Loves What Vanishes”; title page only.

“Man on an Island.” (folder title); 3 April 1951, 1 p.; also notebook with ideas.“Man Who Could Smell Evil People, The.” (folder title); Sept. 1951.“Man Who Found the Fire, The,” and “Basket Case” (folder title); 2 pp.;

another version: 2 pp.; “The Sum Total of All Parts” 1 p.; “The Day of the Hunt” 1 p.; “Basket Case” 2 pp. plus one page with drawing.

“Man Who Had a Headache, The.” (folder title); 5 Nov. 1977, 1 p.“Man Who Likened to Seashells, The.” Begun 27 Sept. 1978, 4 pp. plus title page.“Man Who Made the Sun, The.” (folder title); 2 pp. plus title page; idea; 30

July 1953.“Man Who Murdered Himself, The.” (folder title); Dec. 1955; alternate title;

“The Other Side of the Street” 2 pp.“Man Who Rented Wives From Central Casting, The.” 14 Oct. 1974; short sto-

ry; “The Man Who Took a Wife From Central Casting”; 1 p. plus title page.“Man Who Wanted to Die, The.” (folder title); 3 pp.“Man Who Writes All Those Jokes!!, The.” 27 Nov. 1960, 1 p. plus title page,

with source of idea, John Gay.“Man and Child.” Birth and Death and Reincarnation; outline; 4 June 1953;

2 pp.“Mandolin, The.” (folder title); Feb. 1955; 5 pp. “The October Country” 1 p.

plus a list of proposed RB books.“Manuscript of One Peter Barclay, The.” (folder title); 13 Aug. 1954; 3 pp.

plus title page.“Marriage of Putzie, The.” (folder title); 10 Dec. 1950; “Glove That Will Not

Let Me Go” 1 p. plus title page.“Meat of the Brave One, The.” and misc. (folder title); “The Fire Eater” 1 p.;

“The Meat of the Brave One” 2 pp.“Mechanical Family, The.” (folder title); 2 pp.“Mechanical Hound, The.”; short story; 1 p.“Menage a Trois Stories.” (folder title); 14 Nov. 1979; “The Year They Stopped

Mapping Time” 1 p. plus title page; Letter from Ray to Maggie; title page “Three—A One Hour Special”; tear sheets on “Gotcha.”


“Middle Night of Summer, The.” (folder title); 24 July 1953; idea from reading “Jimenéz” 2 pp.

“Mirror, Mirror on the Wall.” (folder title); 4 pp.“Moron Male.” (folder title); 1 p. plus holograph page and 1 MS page.“Mr. Bones and Cardinal Richelieu.” plus ideas on “The Robot”; “The Afri-

can” (folder title); 3 pp.; another 3 pp.; “The Visitor” idea, “The African” and “The Ghost” 1 p.

“Mr. Freud Comes to Visit.” (folder title); 2 pp.; “Happy Happy Wedding Day” 8 pp.

“Mr. Lean.” (folder title); short story; 25 Aug. 1973; “Mr. Lean & Co.” 2 pp.“Mr. Umbrella.” (folder title); sketch; 2 pp.; “This is the Cost of Whumpin’

Gum” 4 pp.“Mr. Twigbody’s Newspaper.” (folder title); 22 March 1951; 2 pp. plus title

page; “The Editor of the Paper” 3 pp.“Mr. Wycherly & Co.” (folder title); Sept. 1952, 7 pp. plus title page; first

piece titled “The Magnificent Shadwell.”“Mrs. Bamm.” (folder title); Sept. 1952; 4 pp. plus title page.Mrs. Bickling and the Arsenic.” (folder title); 4 pp.“Modesti’s Marionette Critics.” (folder title); audience-reviewers; “The Mari-

onettes” 4 pp.; “The Mechanical Grandma” 1 p.; “The Long Withdrawal” 2 pp. (1 p. Abbey Rents verso).

“Monster Humming.” (folder title); 3 pp.“Morning Talk.” (folder title); 3 pp.“Most Peculiar Beast, The.” (folder title); one act play (Irish play); title page

only; “The Summer Beasts” 2 pp. plus title page; “A Kind of Beast” 2 pp.; “The Summer King and the Snow Queen” 2 pp. plus title page.

“Moth, The.” “Oliver Hardy” (folder title); 1 p.“Mountain of the Moon, The.” (folder title); story about phrenology; Jan

1956, 2 pp.“Mummy, The.” (folder title); 6 pp. plus a brochure on Delusion of Parasitosis.“Mummy.” (folder title); short story or poem 8 pp of 83; 1 p. and paper on

Modern Papermaking.“Murder.” (folder title); 7 pp., 2 pp. on Abbey Rents verso paper.“Murderee, The.” (folder title); 3 pp.“Murder to Perfection, The.” (folder title); short story 7 Mar. 1970 2 pp. plus

title page.“Museum and The Wall, The.” (folder title); 2 pp.“‘Natural, The’ Man Who Buys Everything Brought to Door.” (folder title); 1 p.“Need, The.” (folder title); short story; 4 July 1982; 2 pp.“Neighbors, The.” (folder title); (Mars); May 1952; “Night Vigil” 1 p.; “The

Neighbors” 1 p.


“Never Wake Again.” (folder title); 2 pp.“Nevermore.” “The Fire.” “Pandemonium Theatre Co.” (folder title); story

ideas; “The Fine” 2 pp.; “Nevermore” 1 p.; “One More For the See Saw” an article; 16 Sept. 1959; title page only.

“New Finn Pub!” (folder title); 2 May 1974; “How the Seat, of Local Govern-ment, Aesthetic and Otherwise, Came to Be Moved to Heeber Finn’s or Wisdom’s Pub Where Wisdom Never Ceases” 6 pp.

“Night of Dark Intent.” (folder title); 5 pp. with many holograph corrections.“Night Women, The.” (folder title); 1 p., Abbey Rents verso; “The Dream and

the Dreamer” 3 pp. Abbey Rents verso, holograph corrections.“Nose That Could Smell Crime, The.” (folder title); July 1952; “The Beautiful

Nose” 2 pp.“Now, in December.” (folder title); 3 pp.“Odor of Mortality.” (folder title); 21 pp.“Of Time and the River.” (folder title); 1 p. Thomas Wolfe (screenplay). “Old American Summer, The.” (folder title); Aug. 1958, 2 pp.“Old Folks at Home.” (folder title); (colored people in France), 3 pp.“Old Lady in the Attic.” (folder title); 2 pp.“Old Men’s War, The.” (folder title); “The War of the Engines and the Old

Men” 7 pp. with many holograph corrections; all Abbey Rents verso; 1 p. “Suspense” mimeo page.

“On My Journey Home.” (folder title); 2 pp. 1950–60s?“On Trial.” (folder title); 1 p. A play by RB 14 Mar. 1968.“One Kiss.” (folder title); screenplay; 1985, 3 pp. plus title page.“One More Book of the Dead.” (folder title); short story, 1 p. plus title page,

date of 17 Dec. 1976.“One More for Which Road?” (folder title); 17 Feb. 1977, 1 p. plus title page.“One on Every Corner.” (folder title); 2 pp; plus title page; holograph cor-

rections on one; 1 p.; many corrections plus title page; (all on old brown paper) late 40s?

1,000 Cat Names, Tater Plus (folder title); Paris, July 1988; “Armand and His Goat of Many Colors” 1 p., with drawing.

“One Ticket for Anywhere!” (folder title); Chicago Gangsters and English-man Story; Blodgett; 1 p. plus title page, 30 Mar. 1962.

“One Way to Chicago Abyss.” (folder title); one act play, 1 p.“Photographer, The.” (folder title); 15 June 1953, 1 p. plus title page.“Picnic.” (folder title); telegraphic perception; 3 May 1955, 3 pp. and one extra.“Pig Newton.” (folder title); 2 pp.“Piggyback and Leapfrog Time.” (folder title); short story; idea folder; Jan

1980; “Leapfrog” 2 pp. plus title page, 17 Jan 1983.“Pip.” (folder title); 1 p.


“Pius the Wanderer.” (folder title); short story; 3 pp. Plus “The Wanderer: A Novella” 1 p.

“Planet 24.” (folder title); 2 pp.“Poe on Mars?” (folder title); 5 pp.“Poker Chip of H. Matisse, The.” (folder title); one act play, 2 pp. plus title

page and tear sheets of story with indications of parts to use.“Pomegranate Planet!” (folder title); 1 p.“Practical Joke.” (folder title); 25 Jan. 1953; 2 pp.“Preservation of Antiquities, The.” (folder title); short story; 1 p. plus title

page.“Prince of Darkness, The.” (folder title); short story idea; 2 pp.“Proof of Joy.” (folder title); 29 Mar. 1962; short story, 1 p.“Proper Witch, A.” (folder title); 12 Jan. 1953; 1 p. plus title page.“Quick People, The.” “The Dead People” “Beware the Raven” (folder title); 2

Feb. 1960, 1 p. plus title page.“Quiet Gift, The.” (Bacteria); (folder title); 1 p. plus title page.“Rabbi Yoshel and The Martian.” (folder title); 3 July 1960, 2 pp. plus title

page.“Rangoon Hollihocks, The.” (folder title); Mar. 1973; short story, 3 pp. plus

title page.“Ransom for an Old Man’s Memories.” (folder title); 5 pp. plus small note

pad page in holograph.“Rap-Tap-Rap-Rap Rap-Rap-Tap! A Short Story by RB.” (folder title); 3

Sept. 1992, 1 p.“Raving, The.” (folder title); 3 pp.; “Walk Home in the Summer Night” 1 p.

1946; “Summer” 24 pp.“Retired Vampire, The.” (folder title); 1946–49?; 3 pp.“Robot, The.” (folder title); 2 pp.“Room of the World.” (folder title); mid-40s?; 2 pp.“Room That Was Spoiled by Murder, The.” (folder title); 1 p.“Room With No View, A.” (folder title); 2 pp.“Round Trip—Martian Survey.” (folder title); “Round Trip Survey by a Mar-

tian.” 2 pp. plus title page.“Ruby Ruby Ruby.” (folder title); short story; 1952/1999; “Right Off the Rack”

33 pp. plus title page.“Ruins, The.” (folder title); 1 p.“‘Salem’ People from the Future.” (folder title); “The Settling In.” 1 p.“Saturday Night Review—Murder.” (folder title); 1948; “Saturday Night.” 2 pp.“Savonarola: A Screenplay.” (folder title); 17 pp.“Savonarola.” plus misc.; (folder title); “A Joke from the Fire” (A play on the

life of Savonarola); Feb. 1975, 2 pp. plus title page.


“Savonarola.” Screenplay (folder title); 1966; 11 pp.“Screaming Screamer.” (jet plane); (folder title); Mar. 1953, 1 p.“Scupper Nong’s Balloon.” plus Misc. materials. (folder title); Aug. 1955, 2

pp. “The Man Who Heard All Night Through” story idea, title page only; “Scupper Nong, Bickell, and Bunch!” 1 p.

“Seed Bed.” (folder title); “Seed Bed Seven” 5 June 1992; 3 pp.“Seed Bed: a New Novel.” (folder title); 16 Jan. 1990; approx. 45 pp., some

ribbon, some holograph.“Seizing Man, The.” (folder title); additional notes; 7 Dec. 1998; “The Census

Taker” 2 pp.; “The Seizing Man” 7 Dec. 1989, 2 pp. plus title page.“Seventh Year, The.” (folder title); (complete change of cells, heart, mind, of

man); Dublin, Eire; Jan 1954; 4 pp. plus title page; holograph page of plot. An early fragment opening for “At the End of the Ninth Year” (1995).

“Shadow Forth.” (folder title); “How to Tell a Tale” “The Coffin Makers” “Small Town Destroyed By Films!” 16 Nov. 1953; “The Telling of a Tale” 1 p.; “There I am, Third from the Right!” 1 p.

“Shannon and Drothl.” (folder title); 1948; “Drothl” 1 p.; “The Shannon and Drothl” 3 pp. (the last one copy on both sides); letter from Dick Gehman 1996, 1 p.; 2 pp. paper-clipped no title; holograph throughout.

“Shut Eye.” (folder title); Dec. 1952, 1 p.“Sleeping out—Tucson.” (folder title); Apr. 1934, etc.; much commentary on

front of folder; “Art Institute of Chicago” with commentary (both sides), 1 p.; 1 p. of Idea (“Memory”) of day and Skip.

“Silencio Milton.” (folder title); story idea; 1 p. dated 2 Feb. 1950.“Silver Screen, The.” (folder title); 1950; 1 p. holograph comments.“Skeleton on the Bed, The.” (folder title); 1 p.“Smell, The.” (folder title); 1946–1959; “Tapestry” 1 p. both sides; “Smell” 2

pp. plus title page.“Solomon Grundy: A Novel with 7 Characters and 7 Scenes.” (folder title);

Feb. 1953; 9 pp. complete; 1 p. with copy, rest scene titles.“So Many Lovers, So Little Time!” (folder title); 28–30 Oct. 1986, 2 pp. with

“paste on.”“Somebody Watches, Somebody Cares.” (folder title); short story; 6 Aug.

1972, 2 pp. plus title page.“Sonic-Rorshach Test Story.” (folder title); 1 p. story idea; notes on bank check.“Soul Wells, The.” (folder title); 2 pp.“South.” (folder title); 1 p. plus title page.“Sovereign Remedy.” (folder title); play; 1 p. title only; “The Bedding of Ca-

lendula Lovelace” an operetta in one act; 13 Feb. 1956 3 pp.; “The Sovereign Remedy” 14 Feb. 1962, 1 p. plus title page; “The Bedding Out” 2 pp.; “The Medicine Man” title page only.


“Sovereign Remedy on Bedding—Out of Calomell Jones.” (folder title); Feb 1956; 2 pp. plus title page.

“Space War, The.” (folder title); 2pp., one with synopsis, one with body copy.“Spectacles, The.” (folder title); 12 June 1955, 3 pp. plus title page.“Spookers.” “Phil’s Surprise Trunk.” (folder title); “Cousin Phillip’s Trunk or

The Surprise Trunk” Summer 1932, and 17 Jan. 1992; “The Trunk of Sur-prise” 1 p.; “Leapfrog Five” 1 p.; “Seedbed Seven” 1 p.; “The Spookers” 1 p. plus title page dedicated to Christopher Isherwood and Gerald Heard.

“Squire Grillflank’s Rocket.” (folder title); “Peacock!”; “Robert Capas Suits and The Doctor”; “Squire Grillflank’s Rocket” Dublin, Oct. 1953, 2 pp. plus title page; “The Doctor & The Suits” 1 p.

“Stalin Kills Story Tellers!” (folder title); Dec. 1982; “The New Teller of Tales” 1 p. plus title page; “Let Me Tell You a Tale” 1 p.

“Studio for Henry Miller, The.” (folder title); story idea, 1 p.; “The Shrine” 15 Feb. 1954, 1 p.

“Subject ‘B’ Think Me No Murders.” (folder title); “To Balance the Accounts” 17 July 1982, 2 pp. plus title page.

“Suicide.” (folder title); 11 July 1952; “The Harlequin” 1 p.“Summer Boys, The.” (folder title); 22 Aug. 1960, 1 p. plus title page.“Summer Drink, Just 5¢!” (folder title); 19 Aug. 1962, 2 pp. plus title page.“Sunken Church, The.” (folder title); short story; “The Sea Church” 3 pp.“Suspense.” (folder title); 3 pp.; for radio.“Sunken Cathedral, The.” (folder title); 1 p.“Sweetness and Light.” (folder title); 2 pp., also on back of front page.“Switch Tower, The.” (folder title); “Switchman’s Tower” 1 p., play format;

“The Switch Tower” 1 p.; “Switchman’s Tower” 1 p.; “The Faint Far Coun-try—The Night Train” 5 pp.

“Symphony.” (folder title); 4 pp., play?“Teller of Tales, A.” An Introduction to the work of Somerset Maugham. 1 p.“Terrible Desert of Oz, The.” (folder title); 2 pp.“There Are Those Fine Days.” (folder title); story, 1 p.“There Was a Man in our Town.” (folder title); story idea; 15 May 1953, 1 p.“These Things, These Things.” (folder title); 3 pp.“Third Person Singular.” (folder title); 7 pp.“This Little Piggy.” (folder title); 10 Oct. 2000; “Ten Little Piggys” 2 pp. plus

title page; all holograph.“This Was a Mighty Dust!” (folder title); “Joe Pykes: His Obit Epitaph: Him-

self ” 3 pp.“To Go and Live With The Winds.” (folder title); 3 pp.“To Go In Search of Hitler.” (folder title); April 1973; “To Go In Search” 6

pp. plus title page.


“To Remember is to Forget.” “Death in Venice.” (folder title); 5 Mar. 1944; “To Remember is to Forget” 7 pp.; “Death in Venice” 1 p.

“To Run the Fireworks Bull Mexico.” (folder title); “The Fire Beast” title page only; “The Nights of Fire” 2 pp.

“Treasure Island, A Screenplay.” (folder title); 1 p. plus title page.“Trinity, The.” (folder title); 4 pp.“Trinny and the Graveyard.” (folder title); 3 pp.“Trip Back, The.” (folder title); 4 pp.“Turtles.” (folder title); 1 p.“Two Levels of Desire, The.” (folder title); 7 May 1953, 1 p.“Two Mr. Spensers, The.” (folder title); 7 pp. outline, complete.“Two Names Wrote Down.” (folder title); 2 pp.“2,195 Feet of Film.” (folder title); short story, 2 July 1953; “Two Thousand One

Hundred and Ninety-Five Feet of Film” 2 July 1953, 4 pp. plus title page.“Ugly People, The.” (folder title); 5 pp., 1st p. a description.“Uncles, and the Cousins and Aunts, The.” (folder title); 22 Aug. 1952 also

misc., 3 pp. and letter from Esquire.“Undiscovered Country, The.” (folder title); 14 Aug. 1953, 2 pp.“Valkyrie, The.” (motorcycles) (folder title); and misc. (folder title); “The Pre-

cious Eidetic Man” 1 p.; “The Queen Bee” title page only; “The Precious Man” 3 pp.

“Venice Short-Line.” (folder title); Mar. 1955, 1 p.; “Fafnir the Furnace” 1 p.; address page, 1 p.; “Musical Chairs” 7 pp.; “Do a story based on Mrs. Cherkoff” 1 p.; “Martian Canter[bury] Tales” 1 p.

“Venusian Chronicles, The.” (folder title); novel; Feb. 1953; “The Long Rain” 1 p.; Chapter Titles, 1 p.; “Maria Ducross” 1 p.

“Venusian Papers, The.” (folder title); April 1952; also misc., 5 pp.; “Let the Finder Beware” 1 p.

“Victim, The.” (folder title); Nov. 1952, 1 p.“Vocalizer: To Make Sounds of War in Soundless Outer Space.” (folder title);

1 p. holograph ideas.“Voices of a Buried Summer.” “Folly.” (folder title); 1961, 1 p.; “Folly” 9 Sept.

1961, 1 p. plus title page.“Wake But to Sleep and Wake Again.” (folder title); Oct. 1962, 2 pp.; “And

Fly In Fire” 4 pp.; book list page, extra page with copy.“Wake for Bob Capa, A.” Huston Story (folder title); Mar. 1967, 2 pp. plus

title page.“Wanted: Woman Who Wishes to be Murdered.” 1 p.; two Abbey Rents verso

newsletters from 1948.“Watchful Wakers.” Unfinished Novel (folder title); 10 May 1958, 2 pp. plus

title page, contents page, and dedication page.


“Wax Museum, The.” (folder title); 27 Mar. 1953, 2 pp.; “The Lake in Winter” (The Waxworks), 2 pp. plus title page.

“Weather of Remembrance, A.” (folder title); 2 pp. plus dedication page and title page.

“Welcome to No Town in Particular.” (folder title); June 1975, 2 pp. plus title page; holograph with letter from John Wiebusch on back dated 5 May 1975, 1 p.

“Well, The.” (folder title); 3 pp.“What Time Is It?” (folder title); Wife-Husband-Doctor plot; “Bitten-Bit”

and Misc.; 2 pp.“When You Have Been in Space and Returned, Tired.” (folder title); 1 p.“Where Ever I May Roam.” (folder title); 1 p.“Whirlwind.” (folder title); 4 pp.“Whisperers, The.” (folder title); 1 p. plus title page.“Whole Enchilada Begun, The.” (folder title); 27 Sept. 1959; 5 pp.; “The Sum-

mer of the Ice Cream Moon” title page only; “The Great White Kidnap-ping” 30 Oct. 1959, 1 p. plus title page.

“Why Does Nobody Call.” (folder title); short story, 2 pp.“Wig Shop, The.” (folder title); 1 p. plus title page.“Wild Party, The.” 3 pp.“Wilderness Sound, The.” (the crickets) (folder title); Apr. 1953, 2 pp. plus

title page.“Wind of Time, The.” (folder title); 2 pp. plus title page, (Ashmont Novel);

“The Wind of Time” 7 pp.“Windowsill, The.” (folder title); 4 pp.“Wine-Fingers, Coin—Eye—Birdcage Leg!” (folder title); 1947, 1 p. both sides.“Wine Moles, The.” (folder title); Summer 1982; “The Wine Moles or The

Great Grape Grave Robbings Solved” 1 p. plus title page.“Wingless Bat, The.” (folder title); 1 p., Abbey Rents verso.“Wink, a Sniff, a Smile, A.” (folder title); “The Eye” 1 p.“With a Door Like a Summer Sky.” 2 pp. plus title page. (folder title); “A

Door Like a Blue Sky in Summer” Irish story 12 March 1962.“Woman Who Killed Christmas, The.” (folder title); Jan. 1986, 1 p.“Wonderful Telephone Book, The.” (folder title); June 1953, 1 p.“Woman in the Telescope, The.” (folder title); 20 June 1958; “The Telescope”

title page only; “More Things in Heaven and Earth” 3 pp.“Woman of the Future.” (folder title); 5 pp.; “The Kelly” 5 pp.; “Maiden Voy-

age” 3 pp.; appears to be pages from several stories.“Writer and the Chemist, The.” (folder title); Aug. 1953, 7 pp.; “The Change”1

p., list of 16 sentences for plot ideas?“Writer’s Mafia, The.” Nov. 1965, 1 p.


“Young Man Gavin, Old Man Hyde.” (“Gavin, Thy Name is Hyde”) (folder title); 23 July 1992, 2 pp. plus title page.

“Your 7 Years are Up!” (folder title); 1987; “Your Seven Years are Up or I’ll Be Back in 7 Years” 1 p. plus paper napkin scrap.

II. Titled Fragments Filed in Miscellaneous Folders:

Folder 1: “Laughter.” 2 pp. cheap paper (c. late 1940s), paper-clipped.“Hallowe’en.” 1 p. cheap paper.“Seller of Dreams, The.” 1 p. cheap paper with holograph corrections.“They Also Serve.” 1 p.“Different Pat, The.” 1 p.“Funglers, The.” 1 p. cheap paper.“Chiaroscuro.” 1 p. hole-punched (c. 1950s).[“Casque, The”]. 1 p. bad paper (c. 1940s).“Toy, The.” 2 pp. bad paper hole-punched and paper-clipped (c. late 1940s).“Pillar of Salt.” 1 p. bad paper.“Alderdice.” 1 p. August 18th, 1946.

Folder 2:“Menacing Martians in Oz, The.” 1 p. copy, 1 p. chapter headings.“This is the Time of the Year That Carnivals Come.” 1 p. cheap paper.“Know Where You’re Going.” 3 pp. paper-clipped.“Lynching Party.” 1 p. hole-punched.“Panic, The.” cheap paper“I Love You.” 1 p. old paper.“Seed, The.” 1 p. cheap paper.“Family Genius, The.” 1 p.“Green Bottles, The.” 1 p.“Man From Mars, The.” 1 p. cheap paper and hole-punched.“Mexican Invasion, The.” 1 p.“Empathy Machine, The.” 1 p.“Wonderful Ones, The.” 1 p. old paper.“Jewel, The.” 1 p.“Patterns.” 1 p. “Sell.” also copy on back con’t.“If You have Dreams to Sell.” Holograph. 1 p. bad paper and hole-punched.“Smash and Grab.” 1 p. plus title page, paper-clipped.“Second Death, The.” 1 p. (back Abbey Rents verso).“Large Feather Pillow, The.” 1 p. bad paper.


“Henalen, The.” bad paper.“Magician, The.” 1 p.“Greentown, The.” 1 p. bad paper.“Fourth of July.” 2 pp. with “doodles.”“Ghosts, The.” 2 pp. bad paper, paper-clipped, hole-punched.

Folder 3:“Sleep No More.” not Bradbury.“Moment of Dignity, The.” title page only.“Tempest on the Tram, The.” 1 p.“Sea Cure, The.” 1 p. really bad paper.“Summer in Montequilla.” 1 p.“Dust Builds on Dust.” 1 p. corrections.“Clock, The.” 1 p.“Chariot, The.” 1 p.“Attic, The.” 1 p.“Monsters, The.” 1 p.“A Figure of Wax is Made.” 1 p.“Block Tower, The.” 1 p.“Bird, and the Cage. The Sun and the Moon, The.” 1 p.“Enough for a Lifetime.” 1 p.“Summer Night in the Court House Square.” 1 p.“Tale Told By an Idiot.” 1 p. both sides.“Daughter of the Lion, The.” 1 p.“Blue Remembered Hills, The.” 1 p.“Death in Mexico.” 1 p. holograph corrections.

Folder 4:“Barber, The.” 1 p.“Knife in the Nest, The.” 1 p.“Her Name is on the Town.” 1 p.“Venusian Chronicles, The.” 1 p.“Something to Tell and No Way to Tell It.” 1 p.“Day Everything Began to Happen, The.” 1 p.“Great Dog Days of ’57, The.” 1 p.“Almost, But Not Quite, the End of the World.” title page only.“Fear!” holograph, 1 p.“Witch, The.” 1 p.“Just to Be Alone.” 1 p.“Lamplighter, The.” 1 p.“Amoeba, The.” 1 p.


“Man who Saw Tomorrow.” 1 p.“Proposition, The.” 1 p. with drawing.“Net, The.” 1 p. (Abbey Rents verso).“Indian Hill.” 1 p.“Dark Night, The.” 1 p.“Murdered Sleep, The.” 1 p.

Folder 5:“May Daughter’s Lives.” 1 p.“Turnabouts, The.” 1 p.“Little Goodie Two ‘You Can Be Taller Than She Is’-Shoes.” 1 p.“To Paraphrase Pope.” 1 p.“Hopscotch.” 1 p.“Orwell, Dali, and the Book By One On the Other.” 1 p.“Go-Between, The.” 1 p.“Remember Death? Behold the Flame.” 1 p.“Gin Rummy and the Incident.” 1 p.“And a Little Child Shall Lead Us.” 1 p.“I thought You’d Like to Know.” 2 pp.(Last three pages in list are paper-clipped together.)

Folder 6:“Bracelet, The.” 1 p.“Siege, The.” 2 pp. paper-clipped.“Clown, The.” 1 p. bad, chipped, cheap paper.“Clown, The.” 10 Sept. 1959; 1 p. plus title page.“Longfall.” 1 p.“We Must Not Watch the Goblin Men.” 1 p.

Folder 7:“Marionette, The.” 1 p.“Microscopic Murders, The.” 1 p.“Rise and Fall of the Martian Empire, The.” 1 p. hole-punched.“Story for Cleve.” 1 p.“Altar, The.” 1 p.“Walk Across, The.” 1 p. hole-punched.“End of the World, The.” 1 p. corrections holograph.“As I Was Walking Down Paradise Street.” title page only.“Timeless Room, The.” 1 p. paper-clipped.“Bug Eyed Monster, The.” 1 p.“Venusian Chronicles, The.” 1 p.


“Hearing Aid.” 1 p.“Party, The.” 1 p.“Man Who Knew Surprise for Himself, The.” 1 p.

Folder 8:“In Whose Dream Do We Exist?” 1 p.“Morning, The.” 1 p.“Aesthetics of Weird, The.” 1 p.“Long Way Home, The.” 1 p.“Gargoyle, The.” 1 p.“Soul in Transit.” 1 p. 25 Aug. 1970.“Gomez.” 1 p.“It All Depends On How ‘Tis Seen’!” 1 p. plus title page.“Hobnails Retreat.” 1 p.

Folder 9:“Balloon, The.” 1 p. hand correction.[The Harvest] “A Pride of Lions.” 1 p.“Herb Forest, The.” 1 p.“This is the Hour.” 1 p.“Memory Murders, The.” 1 p.“Green Afternoon.” 1 p.“Life in Mexico: 2248 a.d.” 1 p.“Doggen Heimen, Dog of Arcadia.” 1 p.“Hero at Last a Bore, The.” 1 p.“No Filching From Tennyson.” 1 p. old paper, hole-punched.“Strike Number.” High School paper, hand written, 1 p.“Hound, The.” 1 p.“One More Love Story: Happily Ended.” 1 p.“Machine, The.” (notes), 1 p.“Way Death Comes, The.” 1 p.“Colored Shoe Man, The.” 1 p.“Run Around, The.” (a suspense outline) 1 p.Handwritten Notes. 1 p.“Embryo, The.” 1 p.“Matarod Matador, The.” 1 p.“Curse of the Sartai.” 1 p. old damaged paper (early ’40s).“Long Green Way, The.” 1 p.“Invaders, The.” 1 p. old paper.


Folder 10:“Thistledown and Fire.” A Short Novel, 5 pp.“Thistledown and Fire.” An Anthology of Fantasy. contents page, punched.“Thistledown and Fire.” 1 p. punched.“This in That From Hollywood.” 1 p. (early 40s?).“Dream of One Patrick Kolb, The.” 1 p. punched.“Old Man, The.” 2 pp. punched.“Watch, The.” 1 p.“Penny Scales Murder, The.” 1 p. punched.“Interval One.” 1 p. punched, with drawing.“House, The.” 1 p. punched.“Mr. Daguerreotype.” 1 p. punched (Illustrated Man).“All Clowns Are Masked.” 1 p. carbon punched.“ . . . And Now the Clown.” 1 p.“Bullet Tore Through His Skin, The.” 2 pp. punched.

Folder 11:“Alarums and Excursions.” 1956. Originally “The Witch” 1948. 1 p.“Novitiate, The.” 1 p.“To Make the Unfamiliar Familiar.” 1 p.“Small Talk.” 1 p.“Song of Summer.” 1 p. with ‘doodle.’“Walk Around, The.” 1 p. old paper.“Through a Glass Darkly.” 1 p.“Saved Sadness, The.” 1 p.“Minstrels, The.” A Short Novel. 1 p.

Folder 12:“Dungeons Under Fire Island, The.” 1 Mar. 1967. 1 p.“All Aspects Considered.” 27 Feb. 1962. 1 p.“A Cheering List of My Many Failures to Make All New Young Writers Feel

Better.” 1 p.“Flag, The.” 1 p. 5 Dec. 1962.“Jigsaw, The.” 1 p. punched.“Bill of Mortality.” 1 p. punched.“Space Collision.” An idea. 1 p. plus title page; clipped.“Storm Windows, The.” “Sir Prestino.” 1 p. chipped, old paper, punched.“Minimum of Suggestion, The.” 1 p. plus title page; punched, clipped.“Band Concert, The.” 1 p.“Woman with a Thousand Lives.” format idea; 1 p. old paper.


“Pito” (an idea). 1 p.“Midnight Wine.” 1 p.“Precipice, The.” Chapter One. 1 p. punched.“Lightning, The.” 1 p. holograph correction.“Most Beautiful Woman in the World, The.” 1 p.“I Took the Cabin.” 1/2 page, both sides (high school?).

Folder 13:“All Good Things are Over.” 1 p.“Blue World, The.” 1 p.“John Steinbeck.” 1 p.“Profile.” (holograph), 1 p. (Forry Ackerman) drawing.“Man Who Wanted to Die, The.” title page only.“Drowned Wife, The.” (play) 1 p.“Line Forms at the Exit, The.” title page only.“Fire Balloons, The.” 1 Feb. 1949 (Ballet) 1 p.“Minstrels, The.” 1 p.“God in the Parlor.” 2 pp. clipped.“Scribbles.” holograph, 1 p.“Object Lesson.” 1 p.“Boarding House, The.” 1 p.“Bullet, The.” Suspense plot. 1 p.“Pencil, The.” 1 p.“Smell of Death, The; Odor of the Death.”“Running Man, The.” Suspense, 1 p.

Folder 14:“Attic, The.” 2 pp. clipped, punched.“Dead Psychiatrist, The.” 1 p. punched, old paper.“Little Black Sambo.” SF Story. 1 p. punched.“Trial, The.” 2 pp. punched, old paper.“How it is Cleve’s Turn.” 1 p.“Tinocchio.” 1 p. punched, old paper.“Mr. Bell.” 1 p. punched, old paper.“Where October Goes.” 2 pp. punched.“Hike, The.” 1 p. punched.“I Saw Them Tapping.” 2 pp. clipped, punched.“In the Forests of the Night; Chapter One.” 1 p. punched.“Fountain, The.” 1 p. punched.“House of Butterflies.” 1 p. punched.“First Night of Spring, The.” 1 p. punched.


“Firefly, The.” 1 p. punched.“Children, The.” 1 p. punched.“Butterflies, The.” 2 pp. clipped, punched.“Comedians, The.” 1 p. punched.

Folder 15:“Brother, The.” 2 pp. autobiographical (1950?).“Return of Juan Briones, The.” title page only, hole-punched.“Lonely One, The.” title page only, paper bad and chipped.“Boo!” title page only.“New Crusade, The.” 1 p.“On a Darkling Plain.” 1 p. hole-punched, old paper.“Long After Midnight.” 1 p. old paper.“Terrible Size of Truth, The.” 1 p.“It Was Completely.” 2 pp. punched, autobiographical.

Folder 16:“Mountains and the Rivers, The.” 1 p.“Space War, The.” 1 p.“Good World, The.” 1 p. punched.“Notebook, The.” 26 Nov. 1954, 3 pp.“Phone Mary Benjamin.” 1 p.“Cloak Room.” 1 p.“Paranoid Monthly, The.” 1 p.“Kind of Girl Men Murder, The.” 1 p.“Just One More Tale About Love.” 2 pp.

Folder 17:“Clock, The.” 1 p.“And Walk the Butterflies.”“Yard, The.” 1 p.“When as a Youngster.” 2 pp. clipped.“Darkside’s Folly.” 1 p.“Island, The.” A novella. 1 p.“I’Fantoccini.” 1 p.“Do a Story Based on Hawthorne.” 1 p.“Deserted Way Station, The.” 1 p.“Diggers, The.” 1 p.“Death is a Lonely Business.” 3 pp.“Everything Instead of Something.” 29 April 1943, 1 p.“Children, The.” 2 pp. punched.


“Cellar, The Attic, The Pantry, The.” 1 p.“Egyptian, The.” 1 p. with drawing.“Somebody Say ‘Amen’.” 1 p.“Dark Goddess, The.” 1 p. (Abbey Rents verso).“Boy With the Beautiful Face, The.”“Celia.” 1 p.“Baby, The.” 15 Apr. 1943, 1 p. old paper.“Accident Prone.” 1 p. old paper.“She Woke With Pains in the Night.” 1 p.“Shory’s Woman.” 2 pp. old paper (1940s), paper-clipped.

Folder 18:“Shrike, The.” 2 pp. clipped.“Are You Worth Dying For?” 1 p.“Noon” “Cup of Gold.” 1 p.“Silver Apples of the Moon, The Golden Apples of the Sun, The.” 1 p.“Man and His Friends, The.” 1 p.“I Have Been Here Before.” 1 p.“How it Was in ’49.” 1 p.“Test Tube, The.” 2 pp. clipped.“Please to Remember the Fifth of November” or “Frost and Fire.” 2 pp.“Hour of the Knife, The.” 2 pp. clipped.“There was No Greater Source of Horror Than the Landing.” 1 p.

Folder 19:“Long Midnight, The.” 1 p. both sides.“A Knock on the Door.” 2 pp. clipped.“His Interesting To Set.” 2 pp. paper-clipped, punched.“Fantoccini Ltd.” 1 p. holograph.“Conversation Piece.” 5 Jan. 1965. 1 p. plus title page, clipped.“Helmsman Within or the Gyroscope Revealed, The.” 29 June 1965, title page

only.“Was There Then to Be No Happy Time?” 1 p.“Check Paolosolari! Scotsdale!” 1 p.“Some of My Best Friends are Stuffy, Middle Class, Negro School Teachers!”

3 Mar. 1964, title page only.“Dusk in the Electric Cities.” 1 p.“Planet with the Best Way of Life, The.” 1 p.“Cabinet, The.” A play. 3 Mar. 1965, 1 p.“Answer is Yes, The!” 1 p.“Moby Dick” 3 pp. of dialogue and 1 p. for Irish play.


Folder 20:“Medicine Show.” 1 p., 1 unconnected page.“Don’t Be Like Your Father.” 1 p.“Leigh Kills Mr. Abbott.” 1 p.“Day the Idols Fell, The.” 1 p.“News Came In, The.” 2 pp. paper-clipped.“House Drifted with Dust, The.” 1 p.“Magazines Waited for People, The.” 1 p.“At Work in My Garage.” 1 p. autobiographical.“Rocket Was Made of Iron, The.”“House Was Sinking, The.” 1 p. punched.“Mr. Oscar Lowe Awoke.” 1 p.“There Stood Mr. Poe.” 1 p.2 pp. from “The Jar.”

Folder 21:“This is the Night of the Second Moon.” 1 p.“Big Drop, The.” 1 p.“Nickelodeon.” 2 pp.“Space Walk, The.” 1 holograph page.“Plenty of Time.” (note) 8 Oct. 1948, 1 p. holograph.“Aristocracy, The.” 1 p. punched.“Paranoid, The.” 1 p.“Reading Man, The.” 1 p. punched.“Loneliness, The.” 1 p.“Symphony, The.” 1 p.“Day Will Come, The.” 1 p.“Flight in Fire.” 1 p.“Boat and the River, The.” 1 p.“Love and the Lady, The.” 1 p.“Fire in the Night.” 1 p.“Joseph and the Black Man.” 2 pp. old paper, chipped.“Watch It, You Idiot.” 6 Mar. 1972.“Tale of Castle Deep, The.” (high school) 1 p. title page only.“Man and Woman From the Future.” 1 p. (title at bottom).“What Does Your Lead Character Want?” 1 p.“Hollow Men, The.” 1 p.

Folder 22:“Promised Land, The.” 1 p. corrections.“Thought of Eddie, The.” 1 p.


“Space War, The.” 2 pp. paper-clipped.“Gubenator Ria Maioux.” 1 p.“Dragon, The.” 1 p.“Atlantean, The.” 1 p. corrections, doodle (Abbey Rents verso).“Long After Midnight.” 1 p.“Fine Coffin, The.” 1 p. paper punched.“Fine God Watch, The.” 1 p. punched.“Nose, The.” 1 p.“In Infinite Variation.” 1 p.“Cellar, The Attic, The Pantry, The.” 1 p.“House was a Stone in the Sun, The.” 1 p.“What I Want to Know is What About George Washington.” 1 p. drawings.

Folder 23:“Chain Letter.” 10 May 1986, 1 p.“The Monk, The Monk.” 1 p.“It’s Always Fair Weather.” 1 p.“I Was Under the Impression.” 1 p.“Sometimes I Dream That Damned Thing.” 1 p.“Old Man Woke in the Night, The.” 1 p.“They Spoke of the Spaces” 1 p.“He Awoke With the Dreadful Feeling.” 1 p.“Carl Akins Gave His Name and Address.” 1 p.“This is the Way it Happened.” 1 p. paper punched.“Would You Think That a Wax Mash Could Smell so Exciting.” 1 p. punched.“You Leave Your Hotel After a Good Dinner and You Walk.” 1 p. paper

punched with fantasy drawing in red.“It was Very Early in the Morning.” 3 pp. paper-clipped.“Crushed in the Crowd, He Felt They were Taking His Air.” 1 p.“It Was the First Night of Spring, A Night of Thunder.” 1 p.“He Held the Wood in His Wrinkled Hands As If.” 1 p.“It was an Amazing Thing. He Turned the Corner Wearing a Black Suit.” 1 p.“They Had a Favorite Tomb and They Laughed to Tell.” 1 p.

Folder 24:“Scythe, The.” 1 p. holograph notes on top.“Moby Dick.” 1 p.“Story About: Nigel Bruce, Fannie Hurst.” 1 p.“Chameleon.” 1 p.“Great Machine, The.” 1 p.“Minimum of Suggestion, The.” 1 p.


Folder 25:“Portrait, The.” 1 p.“Morningless Sleep, The.” 1 p.“Trolley, The.” 1 p.“Lovely Renoir, The.” 1 p.“Haunted House, The.” 2 pp.“Mister Harkens.” 1 p.“Death of Bensy, The.” 1 p.“Window Shoppers, The.” 1 p.

Folder 26:“Life Can Be Horrible.” 1 p. with doodle (Abbey Rents verso).“Scissors Grinder, The.” 1 p.“Playground, The.” 1 p.“This is the Way We Burn Our Books.” 1 p.“Robot Was Somewhere Under the Loose Light Soil of Mars, The.” 1 p.

Folder 27:“Ground and Concerto.” 1 p. plus title page, paper-clipped (Abbey Rents verso).“Joney and the Chariot.” 1 p. holograph at top.“Dragon, The.” 1 p. paper punched holes.“Helmet Full O Grades.”

Folder 28:“‘What’s That?’ Asked Elliot, Pointing.” “House Like a Wedding Cake.” 2 pp.

paper hole-punched.“He Came into the Shop, Not Quite as Tall as the Counter.” “Grandmother

in a Bottle.” 1 p.Chapter One. 1 p. “Edward on Venus.”“After Much Time Spent in the Corners.” 4 pp., each with quarter page cross

outs in 4 B pencil.“Hurdy Gurdy.” 1 p.“What If You Knew.” 1 p. hole-punched (Abbey Rents verso).Chapter Six. “Pains in Mid-Morning.” 1 p.

Folder 29:“Windmill, The.” 1 p. with holograph corrections.“Moth, The.” 1 p. old, bad paper.“Pumpkin Eye.” 1 p.“Tonight You Are the Bat.” 1 p.“Adam’s Idea.” 1 p. punched.


“Chandelier, The.” 1 p.“Addressee Deceased.” 8 April 1956. 1 p. plus title page.“One Moment.” 1 p.“Woman Entered After Waiting a Long While, The.” 2 pp., paper-clipped.“Ideas.” 1 p. of Bad cartoon ideas.“Ida Lupino Ideas.” 1 p.“Marriage, The.” Mar. 1944. 1 p.“Bachelor, The.” 1 p.“Upside Down, The.” 1 p.“Little Idiot Box, The.” 1 p.“He Was Tall and Lonely.” 1 p.“It is Strange, She Thought.” 1 p. paper punched.“Roby Was the Bat.” (last line). 1 p.“We Went in and We Sat Down.” Merritt! 1 p.“About Midnight There was A Rap on the Door.” Merritt! 1 p.

Folder 30:“Mr. Wyneski.” 1 p.“World is Always Coming to an End, The.” 1 p. punched.“Scaffold, The.” 1 p. old paper.“Mounting Pins, The.” 1 p. old paper.“Barbara, The.” 1 p.“Astro-illogical!” 1 p.“You’re Still Dead.” 1 p. punched holes.“Balancing Machine, The.” 1 p.“Richard the Chicken-Hearted.” 1 p.“I Can Hear on Top of Mount Wilson.” 1 p. hole-punched.“Coleridge Gibbon Beddoes.” 1 p.“This Can’t Happen to the Burleighs!” 1 p.“Sound Effects.” 1 p.“Great Down Fall, The.” 1 p.“Time Is Out of Joint, The.” 1 p. hole-punched.“Duplicate Circus, The.” 1 p.“When You Write a Story.” 1 p., back also, and drawings.“Sound of Wings.” 1 p.; bottom paragraph holograph.“Man Who Returned Each Day, The.” 1 p.“The Thing in the Expensive Satin Lined Box, The.” 1 p.“Coffin.” 1 p.“Awakening, The.” 1 p.“Miriam Was a Well-Formed Woman.” 1 p.“One Who Fell, The.” 1 p.“‘Grandpa’ He Said.” 1 p.


III. Untitled Fragments Filed in Miscellaneous Folders (identified by first lines):

misc. June 5, 1953:Once to be free? / I am invisible as the wind].Someone was tossing a bushel basket of white paper from the church steeple?]

May 17th 1953 RB“I hate to say this,” said Charlie one morning…]The man smelled of iodine and alcohol and he stood in the doorway…]She heard Henry come tap tap along the dark hall… / Such a beautiful morn-

ing]They lived in six houses / It is an affliction]You can leave your warm café behind]

two newspaper clippings]

misc. 1939–42:Henri was very angry] (Abbey Rents verso)Grandma buried the wax mask at midnight in the graveyard.] (Abbey Rents

verso)The crayfish hid in the deepest coldest pools of dark] (Abbey Rents verso)“Look at it this way,” said the Captain.]You are standing in the door when the car stops]“Joke’s over.” You tuck the money in your pocket.]She was lying on the big bed in the moonlight.] 2 pp.The rain fell in a glass-like perfection…] (Abbey Rents verso)In the yard was an apple tree.] (Abbey Rents verso)The old woman was gray and swift as a ferret.] (Abbey Rents verso)We took a motor boat across the beautiful lake.] (Abbey Rents verso)It was a long, hot and dusty summer, …]The river that comes into Soledad is clear and cool.] (Abbey Rents verso)“War!” the urine ran from him] blue paper, text from Summer Morning,

Summer Night episode.

misc. 1942:Yes, time was still working on his face.]They would come in and sit at the little tables] 2 pp.Everything in her face opened up.]Now is the time.]The silence would fill the house,]WHY speak the words that Wisdom’s Echo mocks?] (sole text)“What’s wrong? You afraid?”]


misc. | content annotations (pix—poem—1939 | plus 1939 burns—allen benny stoopnagle scripts | high school scripts for ed barrera and me | ill man martian chronicles contents 1948–49 [contents no longer here]:“Since Plato and Aristotle came into the house,]Stoopnagel: Hey Percival.] script copied from Colonel Stoopnagel show.Buck Rogers, 25th Century A.D.] script fragment.Rutt Dutt!]Ann: Good morning] script fragment.[sketches]The men were drinking in the Hoodoo Bar one night.]Oh, Mother of God, spare me,]The lights in the rooms above, flashed on.]The tower grew up into the air and twilight moved in about it,]Why should he have moved into the sea, so late in his life]The man at the rocket telescope had been peering down through mists and

fog for an hour.]The boy was yanked into the dim room] (Abbey Rents verso)The door whipped open, a great cloud of ancient dust] (Abbey Rents verso)“Hey, Masterone.”]Now, I must explain that my mother is a strong and a kind woman.]The fire was red by the dark wine sea,]There was no inter-office uproar.]The intellectuals] (holograph note)the flesh had been removed, scraped until the bones were white.]It was a day of quiet and clear air. The rocket lay beside the canal, shining in

the morning sun.]MUSIC OR SOUND OF THUNDERING ROCKET OR ETC.] (script

fragment)The quality of science fiction and weird writing] (moved to writing folder)The Space War] (Abbey Rents verso)He was as monstrous as a weather-rimmed gargoyle] (Abbey Rents verso)Daisy’s father was reading a paper a week later]First men to reach the moon.]But now Joseph Sykes went off like a shadow into the forest.] / Ray Bradbury

670 Venice Boulevard Venice CaliforniaOh, the sound fear makes in a drim [sic] chamber.] (Abbey Rents verso)Grandma Lobilly swayed and put her bare feet out in the hot dust.] (Abbey

Rents verso; from “The Tombling day”)ED: HEY THERE RAY. HOW ARE YOU?] (script fragment)“The Variety Vogue” Program] (proposed radio program script) 4 pp.


misc. 1960–63:What’s that?]Richard awoke and looked about at the room made strange by too sudden

an awakening.]The simple world persisted in resolving itself ]He just let the laughter out of him,]Appomattox Courthouse banister]“It is a clear cool morning,” said William.]It came as such a great surprise]Amid the Renaissance, Botticelli painted his immortal]What is my definition of the bravest man?]“Solomon, say something to Mr. Barnes here.”]Down through the ravine, the boy D. H. ran.]

misc.:He stepped out of the ship and looked at the long silences.] (Abbey Rents verso)THE COLLECTORS, then, were the men.]There was a bank not so far from Charlie’s house.]He dialed the phone.]The confusion had begun then.]Walking down the street one night with my wife, I turned to]The sweetest apples were the highest up]Upon the front door panel, inside,]Senora Galindez. “When will you dig him up?”]He got up in the middle of the night and waited by the phone.]March 11th, 1947 “Business ain’t so hot,” said the hot dog man.]reminded of an incident told me only a few days ago by my friend. [note

on inspiration for The Window”] | This is no ritual; it is as natural as the change of the year]

The stink of thought. It snotted out his vented nostrils. Ig [it] [g]stared from his glassine eyes.]

Thin sheath of cold glass keeping out the night.]Such anger we hadn’t known in many years.]You could hear the green pushing out of the meadows.]She smelled like a lemon and she smelled like cinnamon] (with sketched

doodles).The first thing he noticed on entering the dining car]She looked at his hands twitching on the covers] (Abbey Rents verso)Coming up the road on the high hill lands] (Abbey Rents verso)Call Lewanna McAfee’s mama today] (memo)


He felt conspicuous on 5th Avenue in his rocket uniform] Abbey Rents verso)At home that night he settled by the hearth in his den.]The lightning appeared in every bright surface in the room] (Abbey Rents verso)“Always like to start sitting early in the season,” said Grandpa.] 2 pp.Very carefully he pried the great steel griddle lid of the cistern wide] (Abbey

Rents verso)Theft of a famous 18th century manuscript from the Andrew Clark LibraryHusband: HEADLINES.] script page (Abbey Rents verso)She held her hands ready. Here it comes. (Abbey Rents verso)JONES: Turn it off!] (script)PAGE ONE: The stranger arrives .. the mask] (moved to Masks folder)He rapped on the landlord’s door at eight in the morningOn the pleasantest of Mondays, Gabrielle and I (with drawing)] (Abbey Rents

verso)

misc. may 1960:Among the more efficient and impressive offerings | He sat upon the bench

in the center of the bright square.]The babies looked to the nursery schoolers]“Bumble bee.”]If this. Now together they sing] (possible song lyrics)This time he remember [sic] that the leaves were coming.]Willows had vanished like a plume in a wind.]Mrs. Sadlowski? Mrs. Sadelow? Where are you?] (possibly from unpublished

Douser story)Togetherness, togetherness, is a four letter word.]FUN HOUSE] (script fragment)On the Veneto at night it is summer on the coldest nights.] (blue paper)Men look so silly in their coffins.]Wherever he went he did the world a favor by grabbing]Here live I in my wondrous prison, thought Santos.]CHAPTER ONE | “I’m tired, aren’t you, of novels that]To dear Nora Fitzgerald and the Buttery, to John Godley, Lord Kilbracken,

to Kileshandra, to Derek Lindsay and Mount Street, these warm remem-brances in out of the rain]

By the read sea of Mars | ONE NIGHT BY THE RED SEA OF MARS.1944! What an eventful year.]


misc.:In the green square with the leaf shadows.]For their silences, the streets may have been tombstone-paved.] (Abbey Rents

verso)It was as if someone had raised an immense shade and let the dawn in.] (with

AMS corrections)He lay through the night in his bed, remembering when he | THE ROBOT

MAN who disintegrates slowly. They add plastic bones, gradually.]MARY: For goodness sake, are you still awake?] (script fragment)He stepped into a low doorway with two other men following.]To the very last he did not want to remain.]“Do you good” she said.]He woke up with her fingers at his throat.] (from “Very Gentle Murders”)It was, “Give us six hot dogs, Joe.”]The great window swung out into sunlight]“Why not?” the boys asked together]ANNA: It’s an early summer night] (script fragment) (Abbey Rents verso)He was sick and sick of his sickness.]It’s the damned mouse you ever saw,” said Lustig”] (Abbey Rents verso)And in the morning, you remembered what life was.]It was pretty silly.] (with doodles)There’s a guy named Thomas Mann.]It was two in the morning.]Any moment now, he thought.]The captain looked at him, quickly.]He climbed up into the attic, and looked around, smelling the coldness.]And thus he proceeded through the year, like a beachcomber.]The tree grew in the yard year by year and the children watched it from their

upstairs window.]We were on the carpet, and childish hands laid us and plucked us and laid

us again.]I heard them all laughing their derisive, echoing laughter.]He listened to the nocturnal stations above him.]The subway! With its thundering monster waiting below] (Abbey Rents

verso)MANN: The sound of the wind at night] (script fragment)I was so worried. I was so scared.]“Don’t worry about us!”]It was a small town by a lake.]


unmarked:330 pages as of September 1971 | 270 pages as of September 11 1986] (holograph

memo)We went into the city and we saw that it was good] (annotated)Why didn’t someone tell me about crying in the shower? final version August

13th 1974] (poem cover sheet)A note about Huxley Orwell and Arthur Koestler] (2 pp.)LONG AFTER ECCLESIASTES | two or more new books of the Bible | by

R. B.] (list of contents for a proposed book, and a Greentown poem)I will spend the summer re-reading two priceless authors.] (3 pp.)[The aesthetics of Lostness pages][Various letters]

misc.:[Abbey Rents newsletter.]The woman with the untouched look, they called her]“You needn’t get excited.”]The captain was a fat man with a placid pink face and charmingly naïve blue

eyes.]Somehow I was always afraid that something might happen to us.]Call your dentist for an appointment.]He had come through the woods every day and stood outside her cabin in the

sun, look at her door] (2 pp.)thing which had occurred in Monterrey.]

misc.: 1972:The aesthetics of need 1 p. plus title page.] 11 Jan. 1960A sounds of birds at morning.] 1 p. yellow.Dandelion Wine] screenplay 1 p. Pip!!] 7 pp. (Halloween Tree).Nemo!!] 1 p.Chapter 9 | We lay abed the last night] 5 pp. various chapters (from Leviathan

99).What do I remember of Mexico?] 1 p. blue.Frankton hetmore wife pushed into Morrison’s house for cure!!] 1 p. yellow

paste-in.“We English,” said Hillary Grimm,] 1 p.Most of the time he pretended his daughter was dead,] 1 p.The sun had hardly touched the eastern rim of the lake.] 1 p.You’re my blood but not my blood,” said the old man.]The phone had not rung for fifty years.] 1 p. (possibly “I, Mars”)


Dear sirs …] Monica Lewis 1 p. letter photocopy.We wrote upon the wind. 25 Jan. 1968.] 1 p. blue with drawings on verso.When we came up out of the cellar] 1 p.

misc. 1944–49:The river was deep and blue and came out of the mountains.] 1 p.When the McBaby is eating its McApple sauce.] 2 pp.Hd [sic] lay far into the night, staring at the celing [sic].] 3 pp. of old brown paper.The boy ran swiftly and did not stop] 1 p. (Abbey Rents verso) with drawings

and corrections.

marco sassone:The man was very old and quiet and he sat for an hour.] 1 p. yellow orange paper.Suddenly, in the middle of the night, the feeling would rush.] 1 p.You never really touched any of the rest of life.] 1 p.How does one worship at a shrine.] 1 p.quiet, and going his way without a rustle.] 1 p. old paper.Waves tremoring in slender slick slices on the belly of the shore.] 1 p. old paper.What a hard, firm little mouth, seeking and seeking and finding.] 1 p. “The most elaborate precautions,” said Dr. Stover.] 1 p. yellowYou were never alone in the world. You thought all of your life] 2 pp. old paper.He was falling through space at a speed of some 100] 1 p. blue.Christmas. Ah, the apprehension. Christmas.] 1 p. old paper.“Do you know what they discovered?”] 1 p.When all the little towns of the country are asleep, then] 1 p. old paper.[Envelope postmarked 13 Oct. 1941]

misc. 1942–43:They both sat up in bed, listened, and lay back.] 1 p. (Abbey Rents verso).The coming of death. Every night you folded back the cool white sheets.] 1 p.They walked home together. Once she tried to take his arm.] 1 p. old paper.And many times over the years a little child would ask him] 1 p. old paper.IDEA: Write script for Planet: Best production submitted by any one fan

group] 1 p. (Abbey Rents verso).He felt out of place. Verso: NO GHOSTS ALLOWED? PLEASE? FUTURE.]

1 p. old paper.“Hello, Eddie!”] 2 pp. amateur radio script. old paper.The food was tasteless to his tongue.] 1 p.knew what I planned, they’d kill me.] 1 p. fragmentHe handled fifty thousand dollars a day for a long time.] 1 p. old paper.My dear general, if you were any judge of these things] 1 p. old paper.


The men came in with dirty hands at their sides.] 1 p.CURTAIN UP, THE FIREMAN WALKS OUT OF DARKNESS] 1 p. F451

play fragment.“Tonight. Gosh! I’m going to bed.] 3 pp. older paperWILL: Dad, if anything happened to you, I’d…!]Leave Los Angles: Sat. evening. April 7th. 8:00 pm. | SUPERCHIEF.] 1 p.

travel schedule with NY references.So the time has arrived, she is here] 2 pp.

misc.:This was in the early evening of the year 1891.] 1 p.“This is no slowing up time,” he said.] 1 p.The tall man with the dusty moustache and the tired gray eyes.] 1 p.Hawthorne: He of the locked door and the sky and the shy eye.] 1 p. yellow

paper.He did not leave the prejudices behind; no, far from it.] 1 p.She wanted to run, to get away, to never come back, to leave the apartment,]

1 p. old paper.She woke on a winter’s morning, in a time of crystal voices and hanging ice.]

1 p. old paper.The sky when blown] 1 p.The bell began to sound in his mouth] (from an unpublished story about the

guy who hears music in his mouth)The ship was ready to crash, all things swung wildly to and fro] 1 p. WILL: Dad,

if anything happened to you, I’d…!] (Abbey Rents verso).He flew out of the airplane, waving his wrinkled hands on the warm air] 1 p.

verso: sales materials, c. 1947–48.They stood looking down at his body.]

misc. various years rb:MR. MARIONETTE] (reading list) 1 p. yellow paper.He was one of those Jacob’s Ladder you held up and he kept folding down on

himself ] 1 p. yellow paperWomen seem to be ill, but it is men who die.] 1 p.Horrible joke.] 1 p.special, eh, special.] 2 pp. script fragment.His shouting has tilted all the wall-pictures] 1 p. (Abbey Rents verso).“No!” cried Filomena, face tight] 1 p. (Abbey Rents verso).He had seven other calls to attend through the warm afternoon.] (Abbey

Rents verso).


The dream came back once more.] (Abbey Rents verso).“Hello, Smitty. This is Switchman. Yes.”] (from the story “High Tension” or

“Switchman”). (Abbey Rents verso).The insidiousness of it did not become apparent] (Abbey Rents verso).“No, I don’t shake hands.”] 1 p.She had resisted their onslaughts for years.] 1 p. orange paper.There was no peace in the woman.] 1 p. yellow paper.It was to be murder, no doubt of it.] (Abbey Rents verso).There they were, as many as the cells of a honeycomb] (Abbey Rents verso).They heard him speaking her name at night and woke him.] (Abbey Rents verso).Fear, came like a storm.] 1 p. old yellow.The green peas fell softly out between her quick fingers.] (Abbey Rents verso).[4 pp. Abbey Rents newsletter]They had a house on a cliff at the furthest point.] 1 p.He locked the door and stood there a long while in the dark.] 1 p.About twenty kilometers above Encinada, you turn off the dust road.] 1 p.

old paper.It was then that the glass rapping came on the front door.] 1 p. He fell down and lay on the floor waiting for the rain to come] 1 p. old paper.[Characters from Ylla and The Earth Men.] (verso): He woke in the night] 1

p. old paperOf course. What else would there be to do?] (Abbey Rents verso).“Mike? Hey, Mike!] 2 pp. old paper.his very body. ¶ “Oh, Chris,” said Mother, and came to comfort him. “There,

there.” | THE END] (page number 10 from a story).A GREAT CITY IS A GREAT SOLITUDE] 1 p. yellow paper.I dreamt I supped and wined in bramble bush] 1 p. yellow paper.Mr. Smith sat up in bed.] 1 p. yellow paper.A butterfly slept on the iron rail.] 1 p. yellow paper[3 pp. of clipped editorial previews from Dime Mystery, Detective Fiction, and

Detective Tales.][Phone numbers and doodles] half page (Abbey Rents verso).They made frightful asses of themselves at the station. Verso: The man contin-

ued following him under the lights of the town.] 1 p. old paper.SOUND: WIND BLOWING FURIOUSLY, BANG OF SHUTTERS IN

THE DISTANCE] (script fragment, 1 p.).TIMOTHY: Where are they, Cecy?] (from “Homecoming” script fragment).“Where did you get them?] 1 p. old paper.It was war.] 1 p. old paper.The awnings made sounds resembling the flutter of great] 1 p. old paper.


He came like a phantom into the town, to haunt it.] 1 p. old paper.The hole is filled.] 1 p. old paper. Verso: If you think I intend going to bed,

you’re crazy.The first man invited the others to step inside and his voice] 1 p. old paper.Black, if you want, or blue, or any other color] 1 p. old paper.The Blue Hills] 1 p. old paper (from The Blue Remembered Hills).He knew what was coming, what would happen] 1 p. (Abbey Rents verso).The cave was huge and black and echoed to their querilous voices] 1 p.“You see?” said Gouillpierre] 1 p.The man came along the top of the train] 1 p. old paper.

misc. [homecoming family and the children crossed out]:From the dozens of letters crossing the country] 1 p.To write out of love, to work out of love] 1 p.In the beginning was not the word] 1 p.William Smith returned from his honeymoon, suffering from scurvy] 1 p.Uncle Phillip lived in the dining room] 1 p.The pianola roll looked like a long, and endlessly revolving chunk of Swiss

cheese] 1 p.“I’m tired all of the time] 1 p.The sun in the sky.] 1 p.The fifty moons blinked on at eight o’clock] 1 p.He lived in an element of mud.] 1 p.“Why, when you come right down to it,” said Mrs. Croat] 1 p. (Abbey Rents

verso).“Hello, Helen?”] 1 p.Whenever he was enjoying something he always knew that some day it would

be over] 1 p.The ships have been moving into position for three hours.] 1 p. old paper.It was a warm murmury evening in New York] 1 p. [Plaza Hotel stationery,

c. 1946].She stood in the center of the room. She was pale, and on occasion she screamed.]

1 p. old paper.The steadfast sea. One wave after another, one curved mirror] 1 p. old paper.The smell of the old man was the smell of moist swamp weed and dry papyrus

and old incense.] 1 p. old paper.Do you ever wonder or feel uncomfortable with your own son?] 1 p. old pa-

per. Verso: In the very early morning, after the freshest of rainsThe yellow thick smell of flowers throughout the house] 1 p. old paper.The flowers arrived in the cool early morning.] 1 p. old paper.She was two different people.] 1 p. old paper, dated January 3rd, 1944.


They went across the cold lake at midnight] 1 p. old paper with doodles.Everybody said how unfortunate it was about Mrs. Salber.] 1 p. (Abbey Rents

verso).A wind rose out of the east, and all the town people] 1 p. He had made up his mind.] 1 p. (Abbey Rents verso).the circus ¶ He listened to the house.] 1 p. (Abbey Rents verso).MOORL | And now, with a shock of recognition] 1 p. old paper.

misc. June 86 (falling upward novel may 1986):CHAPTER FIFTEEN: The house of sighs] (page 143) 1 p. CHAPTER FIFTEEN: No wonder they are the friends of our lives] (page

267) 1 p. variant draft of previous page.Ode to Dorothy Parker April 8th 1982] 1 p.

misc. | started January 20th 1952…He was falling he was falling] 1 p.F&SF May 1956] 1 p. notesAnd, lo, the Democrats swept across the country in great locust swarms har-

vesting the Republicans] 1 p. notes yellow paper.They lay in the dark and talked] 1 p.We lie here in the night and the world turns over] 1 p. poetry.A boy and a man and a walk in the sun] 1 p. poetry.This was a place where the dust came down] 1 p. poetry.He said he would kill anybody who interfered with his story] 1 p. old paper.We had just seen Laurence Olivier in King Henry the Fifth] 1 p. old paper

essay fragment.Someday, said Sam, a man in a rocket like that] 1 p. old paper.It was a miracle, as Sam said.] 1 p. To swallow sunsets without gumming] 1 p. poem.How must it be to be at ease in and with and around] 1 p. poem.

misc.—44 | 1944 1945 1946–47 misc.:Chris was the son of Nathaniel] 1 p. with holograph notes 1 p.Even in the most secret movings in the secret beds of rooms] 1 p. with caricatures.The wave was rushing in with all the certainty of the future.] 1 p. old paper.We have a colored man named Henry in our house.] 1 p. old paper.You may recall the character of the woman who lost out in The Constant

Nymph played by Alexis Smith] 1 p. old paper essay.I pressed my rib like it was worth a million bucks] 1 p. old paper.a bit of surgery on me. How funny you can shiver, even on a warm summer

evening.] 1 p. old paper.


There was not a single night in the autumn when he did not sneak into the old theatre.] 1 p. old paper with corrections.

Of course they became hungry.] 1 p.“Now, as for us,” said Lena] 1 p. old paper.He could not sleep.] 1 p.What do you do when the man you work for starts staring at wallpaper] 1 p.The rocket was no more than a great silver pin standing in space.] 1 p.At breakfast there were two Swedish people, a man and a woman] 1 p.He would jerk the coke bottle into the silver lip of the stand] 1 p. orange yel-

low paper.HOLLIS: The child came into our life in October. script fragment] 1 p. old paper.only in Chicago at—” he read the company’s name.] 1 p.“But I saw it,” cried the pilot, his eyes fixed insanely.] 1 p. numbered page 2.

misc. 1944–1945:You sit in the front seat and there’s a little fold of a stomach over your belt.]

3 pp. old paper.At night the 2 in [wind] plunged through the house, lifting and prying and

wandering] 1 p.If he was sitting down, he always stood up when the dwarf came by.] 1 p. old

paper.]“Either you’re doing it or you’re not.”] 1 p. old paper.“Unbearable. Awful.”] 1 p. The terrible engines on the shore come and withdraw and come once more]

1 p. poem; Lower half of page: Between the acts the lobby filled with per-fume and fur and glitters.

At nine o’clock in the morning, the sand of the arena was] 1 p. old paper.The judge looks down, scowling… Verso: “How were you murdered?”] 1 p.

old paper.These people came first.] 1 p. old paper. Verso: “Sit down,” she ordered him.He came in from the dark yard with his lunch bucket in his hand.] 1 p.It was the near accident that set his thoughts on their trail.] 1 p. (Abbey Rents

verso).They call you a ridiculous name at first, something like duckems.] 1 p. (Abbey

Rents verso).Roger, yes, you come back then, but phone first.] 1 p.We sang Luna Luneria and we sang Ay Jalisco and La Marimba.] 1 p. old paper.Picking up the scissors he cut a moon from the orange paper.] 1 p. old orange

paper.It was no more than a coincidence] 1 p.[Notice for O. Henry Prize Stories of 1948 ref Bradbury third prize] 1p. pasted in.


She had a neck like a periscope. It rose like a long tube from a sea of lace.] 1 p. with drawings.

When the solicitor knocked on the flaking front door] 2 pp. old paper.In the green grass of the open field there was a white stone fence] 1 p. orange

paper.The children came and rattled the windows by shouting] 1 p. orange paper.The man with the black overcoat over his arm stood by the high lamp in the

lonely train station.]In other parts of the house, in that last instant under the threat of avalanche]

1 p. orange paper.There was a high brown cliff and at night you could hear the sea] 1 p. light

yellow paper.A tall man with a white face and blazing blue eyes, and a red cocked hat on

his shaven head] 1 p. old paper.Gab ran to the ship quietly, placed his tense fingers upon its glinting hull.] 1

p. with drawings.Until this day, how well the house had kept its peace.] 1 p. old paper.The dictator was bathing in the creek that afternoon.] 1 p. (Abbey Rents verso).“How will we act to him?”] 1 p.

new book of stories summer 96 | oct 1996 [superseded heading]:[Phone numbers and notes] 1 p. blue paper.Cleve went down to the sea to gain anonymity.] 1 p. old paper. Verso: CHAP-

TER ONEAs for the gravestones, they were always mislabeled … names were spelled

wrong.] 1 p. old paper.The men begin to line up] 1p. script light yellow paper.Silence. FADE IN: The hills of western Catawba] 1 p. script.AN INFINITE VARIATION…] 1 p. old paper.[typed stationery headers (33 Venice Boulevard) on 3 pp. blank sheets.]And as he fell the stir of motion from his passage through the cold air.] 1 p.

orange paper.It was a good feeling. The paint remover sank into him and laved him and the

paint began to crinkle and fall off.] 5 p. old paper.It was the time of the closed eye and the blowing curtain] 1 p. old paper.The little girls ran by with bumps on their bodies.] 1 p. old paper.It was October and the children were all in the trees, pretending to be bats.]

1 p. old paper.“What’s your name, Mister,” some one asked him] 2 pp. old paper.It was a thing of small actions at the first.] 2 pp. with revisions and red car-

toons on versos.


Francion was in love.] 1 p. old paper.hunt toadstools and spiders, hanging crepe, but when the party starts, I’ll be

ignored.] 1 p. script version of “Homecoming.”The good thing was that the monster did not know himself a monster.] 1 p.There is no way to accept this, you tell yourself, for it is foolishness.] 1 p.It is a shame that we must be children so late in life.] 1 p. verse.[Excerpt from a radio review given on “This is Your Library” over KGMB

Honolulu, January 14, 1956 by Kay Kerr.] 1 p.Send all these stories to Don Congdon in NYC | There was a castle upon the

edge of a moon-whitened sea.] 1 p. old paper.RILKE: How do you make people go away forever and forever?] 1 p. (Abbey

Rents verso).The air was like dandelion wine, the dust hung after each footstep.] 1 p. from

“The Tombling Day” (Abbey Rents verso).His name was McKenzie and he came down through space] 1 p.The men came down to the rocket port with their faces set.] 4 pp. old paper

hole-punched.

misc.:Switchman sighed and carefully worked on his gray gloves.] 1 p. (Abbey Rents

verso).A small thing, like Scrooge’s bit cheese, finding.] 1 p. old paper.It was a long green way from that loop to Indian Hill.] 1 p. half-sheet recto

and verso.There have been too many books with introductions.] 2 pp. introduction.It had been one of the few and gentle disputes of their quiet marriage.] 1 p.

annotated “3 third draft” in holograph at top. We often used to go up to Madame Lings, which was on the planet Saturn.]

1 p.They met in the council room at three in the afternoon.] 1 p.“I have found your civilization interesting because it has so many] 1 p.There was something of the parwnt [parent] in him as he talked] 1 p. old paper.The crickets lay in the windows.] 1 p. old paper.He pressed the button and waited for the great metal elevator to come down

on its slung wires like a slow spider.] 1 p. old paper.The room was fifty feet long by thirty feet wide and ten feet high.] 1 p. They dropped the brown round tortillas in the simmering, whispering fat,] 1

p. old paper.The well lay in the center of a moist dark forest.] 1 p. (Abbey Rents verso).Sam looked at him with a great deal of coldness.] 1 p. (Abbey Rents verso)

with a cartoon in lower margin.


It was the good time and the happy time!] 1 p.I want to tell you about Kurr-wal. From his name you might have guessed he

was a Martian.] 1 p.It was thin as a scarf, light as a raindrop.] 1 p. (Abbey Rents verso).that the prints were always there and were never noticed until bright objects]

1 p. fragment in progress.It was during that evening of conversation,] 1 p.WILLIAM: Do you like it?] 1 p. script fragment.In the great winter of space, many travelers are lost and not found.] 1 p. old

paper.High noon.] 1 p.Oh, the night was young and light-footed and fresh then,] 1 p.

misc. dec. 1952—:He stood by the window with the lights off.] 1 p. with penciled figures on verso.The atmosphere of the day was blue and resplendent] 1 p. old paper.All about them, in tattered disarray, are the Sunday papers] 2 pp. old paper.8. [centered] | POLLY B: It’ll be great when you wind up behind bars too.] 1

p. old paper.“But they’re all such infernal idiots.”] 1 p.ROCKET WARMED UP.] 2 pp. script fragment, yellow paper.You could hear the moonlight silvering the meadow and plating the house-

tops.] 1 p. pale yellow.She awoke after midnight with the feeling that she was very old.] 1 p. pale

yellow.

misc.:The stiff posture, the smile, the swift snapping of his hands on the wheel,] 2

pp. old paper (clipped).The rocket port was empty in the early morning.] 1 p.Spring was the worst season of all.] 1 p.The space war.] 1 p.To watch the great round mouths turning and chewing the cement slush.] 1

p. old paper.“And what’s more,” she said, “I’m going to die.”] 1 p.“Oh, but I’m not afraid,” protested Charlie.] 2 pp. old paper.“Well, consider how many people in our family have been killed so far by

cars.”] 1 p. old paper.It was one of the early Sunday afternoons in fall when things were getting a little

sad,] 1 p. fragment review (“A Beautiful Night” by Thomas Lovell Beddoes).


misc. 1972—1973:REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS FUTURE] 1 p. title page.12. [rt top] | The two men fade. The stars remain. The music rises.] 1 p. (re-

lated to previous title page).Girls talk rough they say, tougher than boys] 1 p. poem fragment.“Dog is understudy!” | Sykes!]We are trapped with our desire to be better heroes or better villains.] 1 p.

clipped to blank page.our mythology … who we are.] 1 p. continuing fragment.

Folder of untitled fragments pulled from the first ten miscellaneous folders:Man[y] nights, he would hear the voice calling to him.] 1 p. old paper.The Siamese twins each thought the other one was an alien. Each accused the

other of living off him.] 1 p. old paper.The port had the feeling of things happening where things weren’t happen-

ing.] 1 p. old paper.“He’s still there,” I said.] 1 p. It was a day of dust and sun and the riders came through the bowls of dust]

1 p. old paper.The old man stopped and looked about as if he did not see a man present

whom he considered of capital stature.] 1 p.In the icy creeks in the furthest meadows,] 1 p. orange paper.The opening of a clear lens eye,] 1 p. light yellow paper with AMS revisions.It was one of those weeks when everyone was dying.] 1 p. frag article (Men-

tions Mencken dying [1955]). 1 p. light yellow paper.Dead as a post he was.] 1 p. old paper.“A gentleman to see you,” said the landlady.] 1 p. pale yellow paper.In the town the streets were full of walking people.] 1 p.“How did the machines get this way.”] 1 p. verso: They looked in the clear

window of the dining car. 1 p.“And when you have finished the patio, you will sweep out the front lobby,”

said the manager.] 1 p.And then we saw the people coming over the hill behind us.] 1 p. old paper

Verso: But sometimes I find myself wishing.“Shut up, you!”] 1 p. old paper; the last page of a story.They came out of the green pass in the mountains at dawn] 1 p.He felt it when they came from the rocket,] 1 p. (Abbey Rents verso).He sat up in the moonlight.] 1 p. light yellow paper.He fled along the street without looking back.] 1 p. with AMS revisions.The spiders, at morning, shattered the window of space with their webs.] Ho-

lograph text on pale yellow papers.


Very early that morning he began to have the feeling.] 1p.to approach the rocket fire without being burned to a ridiculous cinder.] 1 p.

(Abbey Rents verso).July 28th, 1957. | The empty Arizona highway lay sunned at high noon.] 1 p.

old paper.In the window of the candy store,] 1 p.To lie upon the dusty nap of the rug, with the roses woven therein,] 1 p.He would think of how the grass would sprinkle out and up behind the lawn

mower.] 1 p.On those clean spring days the children would come running,] 1 p.He remembered very well, as a child, his father locking the door] 1 p. pale

yellow paper.VOICE: He stands in the dark.] 1 p. old paper script fragment.It was so hot the house was huge furnace, with flames beating at every win-

dow.] 1 p. (Abbey Rents verso).In the morning the young man awaited his lessons in killing.] 1 p. [possibly

from Ignorant Armies].When Mr. Douglas’ magazine roared away, the night watchman padlocked

the gate,] 1 p. closing with The End.On the way to the city, they would stop by the side of the road.] 1 p. old paper.On Sundays the people would go to the Inlets, arrayed in the finery of sea-

weed and compacts and belch buds.] 1 p. old paper.The world lay in partial ruin.] 1 p. old paper, verso drawing.To say that she was lovely would be to say nothing,] 1 p. pale yellow paper.THE CURTAIN RISES. THE ROCKET MAN WALKS OUT AND

STANDS SMOKING, LOOKING AT THE SKY.] 1 p. pale yellow paper.The man departed. The room was silent and warm.] 1 p.We reached Kashlir at dawn,] 1 p. (Abbey Rents verso).He knew they were fools but put up with them.] 1 p.She arose very late, for it seemed that most of her life now was spent in bed.]

1 p old paper.The child was as small as a thimble and as new.] 1 p.The rocket was a silver thimble on a finger of fire.] 1 p. old paper.The body went out through space, wildly gesticulating.] 1 p.“Come down, oh come down!” The old man cried, far away in the moonlight.]

1 p. old paper with drawings.The voice clock sang, ‘Tick tock, seven o’clock, tick tock, seven o’clock,”] 1

p. old paper.He did not feel well in the morning.] 1 p. orange paper.She thought of what it would be like to be a dwarf in a small room.] 1 p.

New Ray Bradbury Review #3

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Transcript of New Ray Bradbury Review #3