Ray Bradbury

In Mexico, in any small-town plaza every Thursday and Sunday night with the band playing and the weather mild, the boys walk this way, the girls walk that, around and around, and the mothers and fathers sit on iron - scrolled benches and watch.
In Paris, with miserable weather, in thousands of outdoor drinking and eating places, the generations gather to talk and stare.
Even this late in the century in many crossroad-country-junction American towns, Saturday night finds pumpkin boy rolling in from farms to hold up cigar storefronts with their shoulders and paw the sidewalk with their hooves as the girls go laughing by.
Which is what life is all about.
Gathering and staring is one of the great pastimes in the countries of the world. But not in Los Angeles. We have forgotten how to gather. So we have forgotten how to stare.
And we forgot not because we wanted to, but because, by fluke or plan, we were pushed off the familiar sidewalks or banned from the old places. Change crept up on us as we slept. We are lemmings in slow motion now, with no nowhere to go.

How did we lose it all? How can we bring it back?
Well, I have plan for a whole city block where we might meet as in the old days, and walk and shop and sit and talk and simply stare.
And not just one block. But 80 or 90 city blocks spread over the entire freeway - junket-run of all 80 or 90 of the separate lonely Ohio - Illinois - Kansas - style towns, which is what Los Angeles truly is.
But to show you my L.A. tomorrow, I must first show you what L.A. was like when I grew up here.
In the thirties, with TV unborn, you listened to radio or walked to the movies. Who could afford a car? No one. And, going to the movies, you stopped at the sweet shop next door for candy and popcorn, and after the show you came back to the same sweet shop for a malt or the corner drugstore for a Coke, and you lolled at those soda fountains until midnight with all your friends.
For, you see, in those days there a microscopic community in every neighborhood: the theatre, the sweet shop, the drugstore fountain. Your friends? Why, they were always there!
Well, that dear drugstore and its hissing fount, through economics, has vanished. The few that are left have no fountains at all. the few with fountains close at six each night. The sweet shop? That was shot dead when theatre installed their own lobby popcorn and candy stalls.
So, there go two of your most important social halls. Today, 50 years later, as if by proclamation, we have all been told: Move On! So we climb in our cars. We drive … and drive … and drive …and come home blind with exhaustion. We have seen nothing, nor have been seen. Our total experience? Six waved hands, a thousand blurred faces, seventeen Volkswagen rears and some ripe curses from a Porsche and MG behind.
And when we do occasionally get somewhere, the Strip, or Hollywood Boulevard, what do we find? Ten thousand other Dante’s Inferno Souls, locked in immovable ice floes ahead, irritably inhaling, unwanted by them selves and the traffic police. So the exasperated madness and the inhumanity grow.

Where can we go that isn’t home? What can we see that isn’t TV?
Here is my remedy. A vast, dramatically planned city block. One to start with.
Later on, one more for each of 80 towns in L.A..
My block would be a gathering place for each population nucleus. A place where, by irresistible design and purpose, of such a block, people would be tempted to linger, loiter, stay, rather than fly off in their chairs to already overcrowded places.
Let me peel my ideal shopping center an onion:
At the exact center: a round bandstand or stage.
Surrounding this, a huge conversation pit. Enough tables and chairs so that four hundred people can sit out under the stars drinking coffee or Cokes.
Around this, in turn, would be laid the mosaics of a huge plaza walk where more hundreds might stroll at their leisure to see and be seen.
Surrounding the entirety, an immense quadrangle of three dozen shop and stores, all facing the central plaza, the conversation pit, the bandstand.
At the four corners of the block, four theatres. One for new films. A second for classic old pictures. A third to house live drama, one-act plays, or, on occasion, lectures. The fourth theatre would be a coffee house for rock-folk groups. Each theatre would be hold between three hundred and five hundred people.

With the theatres as dramatic environment, let’s nail down the other shops facing the plaza: Pizza parlor. Malt shop. Delicatessen. Hamburger joint. Candy shop. Spaghetti cafe …
But, more important, what other kinds of shops are most delicious in our lives? When browsing and brooding, what’s the most fun?
Stationary shop? Good. Most of us love rambling among the bright papers in such stores.
Hardware shops? Absolutely. That’s where men rummage happily, prowling through the million bright objects to be hauled for use some other year.
Two bookstores, now. Why not three?
One for hard covers, one for paperbacks and the third to be an old and rare bookseller’s crypt, properly floundered in dust and half-light. This last should have a real fire-hearth at its center where, on cool nights, six easy chairs could be drawn about for idling bookmen / students in stance with Byron’s ghost, bricked in by thousands of ancient and honorable tomes. Such a shop must not only spell age but sound of its conversation.
How about an art supply shop? Fine! Paints, turpentines, brushes, the whole lovely smelling works. Next door? An art gallery, of course, with low- and high - price ranges for every purse!
A record shop, yes? Yes. They’ve proven themselves all over our city, staying open nights.
What about a leather shop, and a tobacconist’s … but make your own list from here on! The other dozen or two dozen shops should be all shapes, sizes and concepts. A toy shop. A magic shop, perhaps, with a resident magician.
And, down a small dark cob-webbed alley a ramshackle spook theatre with only 90 seats where every day and every night a different old horror film would scuttle itself spider-wise across a faintly yellow parchment-screen …

There you have my remedy. There’s my plan to cure all your urban ills.
Good grief! You cry, what’s so new about that?
Nothing, I replay, sadly. It’s so old it now must become new again. Once it was everywhere in some form. Now it must be thought of and born all over again.
It has existed in the arcades surrounding St. Mark’s Square in Venice, Italy, for more than five hundred years. It exists in the Galleria in Milan where, one hundred years ago Mark Twain fell in love with it and wanted to stay on forever at its "tables all over these marble streets, people sitting at them, eating, drinking, smoking -- crowds of other people strolling by -- such is the Arcade. I should like to live in it all my life. The windows of the sumptuous restaurant stand open, and one dines and enjoys the passing show."
If we could summon Mark Twain back from the dead he might well point out, ironically, that we already have many such plazas in Los Angeles, which have languished and fallen into disuse. We have forgotten why Pershing Square and the Olvera Street Plaza were built: as center about which to perambulate souls and refresh existence.

Life really begins at dusk in Rome. In the blue hour, and late on through the idle evening, shopping continues, mixed with time to wander, linger, sit and stare.
The Plaza I have constructed here should never be built unless it opens for business at three each afternoon. Week nights it should stay open until at least 11:30. Friday, Saturday and Sunday nights the closing hour should be 1 or 2 a.m..
Will this take some real doing? Yes. Because your average small American businessman is locked into a nine to five schedule. No news hours are worth considering. So, thousands of new customers are ignored and your small business flounders for seemingly inexplicable reasons.
Your small businessman has many reasons to affiliate himself in such as amiable environmental plaza as the one I propose, where he will be guaranteed a fresh river of pedestrians every hour. And being situated on the north, south, east or west side of the plaza will not affect his business by so much as a cent.
Bring this small businessman in, into this effort to recenter our live. Give the community back to the community, to build a base for young and old, and discourage the endless miles of mindless driving as millions of people pass other millions looking for Somewhere To Go.
But, the Somewhere To Go will only work, I repeat, if it opens late and closes late.

Which brings us round to a final description of my Plaza:

Bandstand at the center on which local talent can sing and play.

Four hundred or five hundred chains surrounding the bandstand, where people can sit all night, under the heavens. In winter, such as it is in California, outdoor heating can be installed.

Around this, the great pedestrian treadway. On this, real people actually working!

And around them, in turn, the shops, the theatre.

Underneath: parking. Or the next block over, hidden, for God’s sake, behind bushes and trees.

Final points:

In all eating places, plenty of booths facing each other, for conviviality. Too many places, like Baskin - Robbins, have sits lined up against the wall. The message implied is: So Long. Get Away. Goodbye.

Again: better a small businessman working ‘till midnight than a small businessman bankrupt and relief.

If you can’t build a large plaza, build a small one with just one or two theatre and a dozen shops. The must important element that remain constant is the center, the conversation pit, the plaza walk - around concourse where people know, are absolutely sure if they bother to go, they will se someone they knew from junior high school, college or some neighborhood area.
Let’s start with one plaza such as this, and build more. Needless to say, the ones that follow must not duplicate the first in texture or color or sense of drama.
Just as in the great cities of the world, there is only one Eiffel Tower for Paris, one Tower of London, one St. Peter’s for Rome, so, on a lesser level, each plaza in all 80 lost and needful Los Angeles small town should in some way strike individual chords of the backgrounds they arise from. In West Hollywood, of course, you would let the crazy fine Greenwich Village spirit that runs wild there work your design for you.

We have been yelling for years against the Orwellian world 1984, and at the same time have been busy building such a world and walling ourselves in.
Now we must remember that drama and theatre are not special and separate and private things in our lives. They are the true stuff of living, the heart and soul of any city. It follows we must begin to provide architectural stages upon which our vast population can act out their lives.
The hour grows late. We must give us back to ourselves.
For what finer gift is there in all the world?

How fortunate we are that Ray Bradbury's career has lasted six decades (and counting). Whether it's through science fiction classics like Fahrenheit 451 and The Martian Chronicles, or books like Dandelion Wine, which capture the full sensory intensity of the magic of everyday life, Bradbury has a way of unlocking the door to imagination like no other author. Aside from writing 30+ books, he has also made several forays into the worlds of film and television. He adapted Moby Dick for John Huston's classic film, and his TV series, Ray Bradbury Theater (which featured filmed versions of his short stories), was a milestone. In addition to numerous other awards (including the Benjamin Franklin Award and the Grand Master Award from the Science Fiction Writers of America), Bradbury was recently awarded the National Book Foundation's 2000 Medal for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters. From the Dust Returned is Bradbury's first new novel in nine years, and has been in the making for over 55 years. It is his first full-length work to feature the greathearted, slightly outlandish Halloween creature clan known as the Elliotts, and is a rich culmination of the career of one of the most celebrated literary icons of the past century.

If you're going to grow up to be a writer you must pick your relatives very carefully.

I was lucky to be born on a block where three Bradbury families inhabited homes full of books.

In my grandparents' house on the corner of Washington and St. James in Waukegan, Illinois, there were ceiling-high cases, bricked with tomes collected by my grandfather: fairy tales by the Brothers Grimm and Andersen, plus Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass. These made a bright ladder to be climbed by "curiouser and curiouser" boys.

In my own home on St. James, upstairs, was my crazy Aunt Neva, called crazy because she owned a wild imagination that encompassed stagecraft, dress design, and story telling. She read me L. Frank Baum's The Wonderful Wizard of Oz and all his sequels but, most incredibly, the ghastly tarns and sinking Ushers of Edgar Allan Poe. I gulped his Amontillado and buried my soul with his Tell-Tale Heart. He dug the Pit, I swung the Pendulum.

In the third Bradbury house my Uncle Bion loaned out the stunning Martian novels of Edgar Rice Burroughs and tossed in Tarzan for good measure.

So, feverishly racing back and forth among the three houses, I was fully educated by the age of 10, stuffed full with far worlds and strange enticements.

Along the way I was spelled by magicians. The amazing Blackstone came to town when I was 7 and I saw how he came alive onstage and thought, God, I want to grow like that! and ran up to help him vanish an elephant. To this day I don't know where that elephant went. One moment it was there, the next— abracadabra —with a wave of the wand it was gone!

In 1929 Buck Rogers came into the world and on that day in October a single panel of the Buck Rogers comic strip hurled me into the future. I never came back.

It was only natural when I was 12 that I decided to become a writer and laid out a huge roll of butcher paper to begin scribbling an endless tale that scrolled right on up to Now, never guessing that the butcher paper would run forever.

So there you have an amalgam of the influences that caused me to write From the Dust Returned —my beloved family, books, magic, a superhero, and the transporting power of words.

And then there is Halloween. Capital to my life was, as I have said many times, my crazed Aunt Neva. Crazed, that is, with Halloween. The day before All Hallows my brother and I jumped into her Tin Lizzie and she motored us through farm country seeking hidden pumpkins and corn shucks to bring back to redecorate my grandparents' house, which was much like the house in From the Dust Returned. We placed the oaken leaves from the dining room table on the stairs so if you wanted to go up it was a slippery ascent, but going down, you slid.

On Halloween itself Aunt Neva declared our house a Halloween House. Pumpkins were carved, candles were lit, costumes were donned, and the "haunting" began. My aunt stashed me in the attic, dressed as a witch, where I played my violin poorly and frightened no one. So Halloween became the supreme holiday of all holidays; better than the Fourth of July and far superior to Christmas because you gave yourself gifts of weather and became something other than yourself; these things were lacking in December.

Along the way I realized I could fulfill my twin desires to become a magician and a writer. After all, what is a writer if not a magician of words? My first stories appeared in Weird Tales. I had discovered in my imagination a vein of strange tales of men who found skeletons in their bodies, pale metaphors of death and destruction.

Somewhere in my middle 20s I wrote a piece of From the Dust Returned, a story called "Homecoming," and mailed it to Weird Tales who promptly rejected it, saying it wasn't "traditional" enough. They wanted ghosts like those that inhabited the stories of Edgar Allan Poe or A Christmas Carol.

Refusing to be refused, on a hunch I sent my story to Mademoiselle magazine. They didn't know what to do with it either and kept it for months. In frustration I inquired what was going on and they wired back, "We've been trying to figure ways to change your story to fit our magazine. Instead, we'll change the magazine!"

So they published a special Halloween edition of Mademoiselle in October 1946, complete with an illustration by Charles Addams (which is the illustration seen again after all these years, on the cover of From the Dust Returned).

In New York shortly thereafter, I met Mr. Addams and we planned a book; I would write and he would illustrate. He had just begun his career with what became his vivid Addams Family when I arrived with my Family and my House. We approached several publishers, had a few nibbles, years passed, Charles Addams went his way, I went mine.

From 1946 on I wrote more stories about my Family and my House but all the while, unknowingly, I was writing about my peculiar Aunt Neva, my Uncle Bion, and especially my Uncle Einar, the joy of my life. He was my loud, boisterous, drinking Swedish uncle who burst into our home with a great cry and left with a shout. Loving him, I fixed green wings to his shoulders and flew him through the night sky to seize and toss me into the clouds.

So, slowly, through 55 years From the Dust Returned evolved. Finally, two years ago, Jennifer Brehl with Morrow Avon Books insisted that I buckle down and finish the book; my 80th birthday was on the horizon. Thanks to her I built more wings and caused more leaves to fall, more storm clouds to accumulate, and Houses to be raised and finished. There were voices that cried to be heard, echoes that were meant to reverberate.

My 80th birthday has passed, and I'm now looking forward to my 81st. But when I peer closely into the mirror of From the Dust Returned I see myself in Timothy, the foundling child who is taken in by the strange and wonderful Elliott Family. Of course, I will always be a child at heart; I know that is the only way to live life. How can one truly appreciate all that the world has to share if not through the unmisted eyes of a youngster?

Finally, in From the Dust Returned, all my relatives are reborn, especially my Aunt Neva who was not mad after all but who guided me through life as a real and special mother. If this book must have another special dedication it should be: To a not-so-crazy aunt, with much love.

Essay copyright © 2001 by Ray Bradbury.

Дата добавления: 2015-10-29