This Day in Literary History (Ray Bradbury, Lyrical, Starry-Eyed Futurist, Born)

Aug. 22, 1920—Ray Bradbury, who imagined the opportunities and terrors of a science-dominated future in approximately 600 short stories, novels, poems, screenplays, and teleplays of indelible vividness, was born in Waukegan, Ill.

Like other mid-20^th century writers in the sci-fi, horror, and crime genres such as Isaac Asimov, Robert Silberberg, Robert Bloch, Richard Matheson, and Roald Dahl, Bradbury benefited from two vehicles: first, pulp magazines, and second, anthology TV series. These forums furnished the opportunity for these authors to be productive and to expose their work to mass audiences.

In high school one year, I spent an entire quarter on science fiction. The nun who taught the class, Sister Margaret Bradley, did not use the term “science fiction,” but rather “alternative futures,” because she did not want to emphasize gadgetry but speculation on the possibility of changing human nature. Bradbury, I think, was the author who best epitomized what she had in mind.

The best-known work in Bradbury’s seven-decade career is probably Fahrenheit 451 (1953). That warning on the dangers of censorship, coming after the collapse of Nazi Germany but at the height of the McCarthy Era in the U.S., became the basis for a “Read-a-Thon” this Saturday streaming over YouTube, Facebook, and Instagram.

The Library of Congress, the Los Angeles Public Library, and the Alliance for Young Artists & Writers, along with other public and university libraries nationwide, joined together for this event.

Bradbury was concerned not just with what human beings might encounter in the future but with how their frailties might lead them to squander the possibilities of all the new vistas opened to them.

Such was the case, for instance, with The Martian Chronicles (1950), in which mankind repeatedly attempts to colonize the Red Planet, only unable to shed longtime prejudices in this new environment.

The fantastic visions of Bradbury’s fiction are manifested through a sensory, even lyrical style, marked by striking metaphors and similes. “Once you hear a metaphor of mine, you won't forget it,” he said in a 1990 interview with Starlog Magazine.  A dinosaur falling in love with a lighthouse, boom, there's your metaphor. Once you hear that, you say, ‘Gee, I gotta read that, I wonder what happened?’"

In the impressionistic opening paragraph of one of his most anthologized stories, “The April Witch” (1952), he conveyed the (literal) flight of fancy of a 17-year-old witch seriously thinking of giving up her extraordinary power if she can only experience human love:

“Into the air, over the valleys, under the stars, above a river, a pond, a road, flew Cecy. Invisible as new spring winds, fresh as the breath of clover rising from twilight fields, she flew. She soared in doves as soft as white ermine, stopped in trees and lived in blossoms, showering away in petals when the breeze blew. She perched in a lime-green frog, cool as mint by a shining pool. She trotted in a brambly dog and barked to hear echoes from the sides of distant barns. She lived in new April grasses, in sweet clear liquids rising from the musky earth.”

Movies started to shape Bradbury’s imagination during the silent-film era, and his education in the performing arts was even more thoroughly grounded in 1940, when he became active in amateur productions of actress Laraine Day’s Wilshire Players Guild for Mormon actors.

From early in his writing career, filmmakers were anxious to adapt his fiction, or even engage him in original work for the screen. But his experiences with Hollywood were frequently unstellar and often unhappy.

It took Bradbury years to see virtues in Francois Truffaut’s first English-language feature, a 1966 adaptation of Fahrenheit 451. The Martian Chronicles gave him a case of double agita: first, when a story from it inordinately influenced an early Twilight Zone episode and damaged Bradbury’s relationship with friend and series creator Rod Serling; and second, when NBC ran a 1980 miniseries based on it starring Rock Hudson that Bradbury dismissed as “just boring.”

But the experience that may have soured Bradbury most deeply on Hollywood was his assignment to adapt Moby Dick for the screen for John Huston. The legendary director, impressed with Bradbury’s short story “The Fog Horn,” asked that the sci-fi author work on adapting Herman Melville’s novel in Ireland, where the film would be shot on location off the coast of County Cork, Ireland.

The initial high regard that the two had for each other began to erode as they spent more than half a year revising the script. But Bradbury became particularly angry when the director pulled a maneuver that Orson Welles had originally tried out more than a decade before with Herman Mankiewicz on Citizen Kane: i.e., gaining co-screenwriting credit. Huston proved more successful than Welles in that effort, even managing to overturn the Screen Writers Guild’s decision to award sole credit to Bradbury.

Decades later, the two wrote accounts in which their initial admiration yielded to disgruntlement. In his 1980 memoir An Open Book, Huston confessed to bewilderment about an author terrified by airplanes and fast cars even though his fiction inspired authors, astronomers and astronauts to dream of the stars.

Bradbury responded first with the 1984 short story “The Banshee,” which depicted a screenwriter tormented by a womanizing, sadistic famous director on his remote Irish screen, then nearly a decade later with Green Shadows, White Whale (1992), whose title and quasi-fictional format recalled an earlier screenwriter’s account of working with Huston on location, Peter Viertel’s White Hunter, Black Heart.

Perhaps the most satisfaction that Bradbury derived from adaptations of his work came with The Ray Bradbury Theater, a Canadian-American anthology series that ran for six seasons on cable TV. The series was nominated 10 times and won six for the coveted ACE (Award for Cable Excellence) from 1985 to 1992.

As executive producer and chief contributor to the series, Bradbury took a page from Serling in hosting the show. Unlike his estranged friend, his introductions framed the fantasy elements of the show squarely within his own creative process:

"People ask, ‘Where do you get your ideas?’ Well, right here.  All this is my Martian landscape.  Somewhere in this room is an African veldt. Just beyond perhaps is a small Illinois town where I grew up. And I'm surrounded on every side by my magician’s toyshop. I'll never starve here. I just look around, find what I need, and begin. I'm Ray Bradbury, and this is The Ray Bradbury Theater. Well then, right now, what shall it be? Out of all this, what do I choose to make a story? I never know where the next one will take me. The trip, exactly one half exhilaration, exactly one half terror.”

Bradbury’s passing in 2012, at the age of 91, elicited an affectionate and admiring post about the author by Nina Munteanu on the Scribophile writing blog.

Quote of the Day (Sarah Kendzior, on the Urgent Need to ‘Be Your Own Light’ Now)

“Write down what you value; what standards you hold for yourself and for others. Write about your dreams for the future and your hopes for your children. Write about the struggle of your ancestors and how the hardship they overcame shaped the person you are today. Write your biography, write down your memories. Because if you do not do it now, you may forget. Write a list of things you would never do. Because it is possible that in the next year, you will do them. Write a list of things you would never believe. Because it is possible that in the next year, you will either believe them or be forced to say you believe them.”— Anthropologist and journalist Sarah Kendzior, “We’re Heading Into Dark Times: This is How to be Your Own Light in the Age of Trump,” The Correspondent, Nov. 18, 2016

Four years ago, as has happened so often in the past, this warning might have seemed alarmist. But anyone following the news runs the danger of becoming inured to the nightmare scenario outlined in the last four sentences in the above quote.

What is at stake is nothing less than the same values of civilization held up in Pericles’ “Funeral Oration” to his fellow Athenians, according to Greek historian Thucydides’ Peloponnesian War:

“Our constitution does not copy the laws of neighboring states; we are rather a pattern to others than imitators ourselves. Its administration favors the many instead of the few; this is why it is called a democracy. If we look to the laws, they afford equal justice to all in their private differences; if no social standing, advancement in public life falls to reputation for capacity, class considerations not being allowed to interfere with merit; nor again does poverty bar the way, if a man is able to serve the state, he is not hindered by the obscurity of his condition. The freedom which we enjoy in our government extends also to our ordinary life. There, far from exercising a jealous surveillance over each other, we do not feel called upon to be angry with our neighbor for doing what he likes, or even to indulge in those injurious looks which cannot fail to be offensive, although they inflict no positive penalty. But all this ease in our private relations does not make us lawless as citizens. Against this fear is our chief safeguard, teaching us to obey the magistrates and the laws, particularly such as regard the protection of the injured, whether they are actually on the statute book, or belong to that code which, although unwritten, yet cannot be broken without acknowledged disgrace.”

Each day brings another assault against what Pericles called “our chief safeguard.” After four years, none of us can say any longer that we do not know the threats we face: nothing less than the protection of the individual citizen, even the most disadvantaged, from harm; the notion that no man is above the law; and the fate of the republican experiment itself.

Democratic Athens did not endure. We shall see, over the next few months, if democratic America will.

Photo of the Day: Dawn Breaking, Chautauqua Lake, Upstate NY

In summers past, maybe even at this late point in the season, my lungs would have been refreshed and my eyes gladdened by a walk by this lakefront on the grounds of the Chautauqua Institution. This year, like much else because of the threat posed by COVID-19, that experience was out of the question.

This photo I took in the summer of 2007 represents my attempt to relive that, virtually, through the power of memory. 

It is one of the tragedies of our age that so many believe that the virtual can match the actual. But, for now, it will have to suffice.

Quote of the Day (Ogden Nash, on Procrastination)

“How drear, on a planet with plenty of woes,

That sloth is not slumber or torpor repose;

That the innocent joy of not getting things done

Simmers sulkily down to plain not having fun.

You smile in the morn like a bride in her bridalness

At the thought of a day of nothing but idleness.

By midday you’re slipping, by evening a lunatic,

A perusing-the-newspapers-all-afternoonatic,

Worn to a wraith from the half-hourly jaunt

After glasses of water you didn’t want,

And at last when onto your pallet you creep,

You discover yourself too tired to sleep.”—American poet Ogden Nash (1902-1971), from “Procrastination is All of the Time,” originally published in The New Yorker in 1939, reprinted in Fierce Pajamas: An Anthology of Humor Writing from “The New Yorker,” edited by David Remnick and Henry Finder (2001)

Quote of the Day (Winston Churchill, on How Much Was ‘Owed by So Many to So Few’)

“The gratitude of every home in our Island, in our Empire, and indeed throughout the world, except in the abodes of the guilty, goes out to the British airmen who, undaunted by odds, unwearied in their constant challenge and mortal danger, are turning the tide of the World War by their prowess and by their devotion. Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few. All hearts go out to the fighter pilots, whose brilliant actions we see with our own eyes day after day; but we must never forget that all the time, night after night, month after month, our bomber squadrons travel far into Germany, find their targets in the darkness by the highest navigational skill, aim their attacks, often under the heaviest fire, often with serious loss, with deliberate careful discrimination, and inflict shattering blows upon the whole of the technical and war-making structure of the Nazi power. On no part of the Royal Air Force does the weight of the war fall more heavily than on the daylight bombers, who will play an invaluable part in the case of invasion and whose unflinching zeal it has been necessary in the meanwhile on numerous occasions to restrain.”—British Prime Minister Winston Churchill (1874-1965), “The Few” speech to the House of Commons, Aug. 20, 1940

In his early days as Prime Minister, Winston Churchill was intent on preparing his countrymen for immense sacrifice and on rallying them against the Nazi menace. Eighty years ago today, he reported, in detail and with the stirring words above, on how courageous British airmen had withstood the most serious assault ordered by Adolf Hitler to date.

With France out of the way, Hitler turned his attention in earnest to Britain. Assured by his designated successor, Luftwaffe founder Hermann Goering, that German airforce could overpower British’s in five weeks, he belied that a massive aerial attack would soften Britain up for a knockout blow by land and sea forces. The Luftwaffe began by targeting southern England, but on August 13, 1940 switched to raining punishing blows on British airfields and radio stations.

By “so few,” Churchill could have been referring not just to the Royal Air Force (RAF) compared with the whole population of Great Britain but also to its significant disadvantage against the Luftwaffe. Hitler could call on 1,260 long-range bombers, 320 dive bombers, 280 twin-engine fighters, and 800 single-engine fighters, versus only 900 fighters for the RAF.

From July 10 to October 12—the duration of the Battle of Britain—the British public watched the skies, dreaded the bombs that would eventually come their way, and prayed for the young men rushing to their planes to save them. The first two months were particularly intense for the airmen, wrote Supermarine Spitfire pilot Richard Hillary in his memoir of the battle, The Last Enemy (1942):

“[W]e were always so outnumbered that it was practically impossible, unless we were lucky enough to have the advantage of height, to deliver more than one Squadron attack. After a few seconds we always broke up, and the sky was a smoke trail of individual dog-fights. The result was that the Squadron would come home individually, machines landing one after the other at intervals of about two minutes. After an hour, Uncle George would make a check-up on who was missing. Often there would be a telephone call from some pilot to say that he had made a forced landing at some other airdrome, or in a field. But the telephone wasn’t always so welcome. It would be a rescue squad announcing the number of a crashed machine; then Uncle George would check it, and cross another name off the list. At that time, the losing of pilots was somehow extremely impersonal; nobody, I think, felt any great emotion — there simply wasn’t time for it.”

Like its foe, the RAF sustained heavy losses. Dark days remained, including The Blitz that lasted from September through the following March. But, through a combination of cool-headed British military and political leadership and adept use of radar—and Nazi underestimation of their foe and lack of military intelligence—the RAF prevailed, of course.

The Website of the Churchill Society London labels the speech I’ve excerpted here “The Few.” No other label is necessary to identify its contents, so well-known is the sentence that makes it among the Prime Minister’s most quoted utterances.

That sentence is not just a masterly exercise in political rhetoric but also in effective English, demonstrating in microcosm why Churchill would be awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature 13 years later. It employs to perfection parallel construction—a series of phrases held together by similar words, phrases or grammatical structure. That common element is the word “so,” followed by a set of quantities—with the first two suggesting immensity (“much” and “many”), but the last providing an unexpected contrast conveying paucity (“the few”).

Oh, yes, one last thing: Churchill had a large ego (“All men are worms, but I do believe that I am a glow-worm,” he observed waggishly). But he knew when to step aside and pay tribute to others without drawing undue attention to himself.

His audience—both members of the House of Commons and the larger world who read his words reported afterward—knew exactly who he meant by “the few,” and it did not include himself. (And that is part of the reason why I chose to use a photo of the brave airmen rather than the great statesman who honored them.)

Certain contemporary world leaders might take note of that—and keep in mind that, for his heartfelt acknowledgment of others, Churchill has still managed to be remembered well by posterity.

(I wrote this post while listening to the stirring soundtrack of the 1969 film, The Battle of Britain. Do yourself a favor: When you feel down-heartened by the drumbeat of infuriating news this days, play this YouTube clip of this uplifting music.)

Song Lyric of the Day (Bacharach and David, on the ‘Dream in Your Heart’)

“Fame and fortune is a magnet

It can pull you far away from home

With a dream in your heart you're never alone.”— "Do You Know the Way to San Jose," music by Burt Bacharach, lyrics by Hal David, recorded by Dionne Warwick for her Valley of the Dolls LP (1968)

Bacharach’s effervescent melody and Warwick’s lighter-than-air vocals can only go so far in camouflaging David’s melancholy, even searing lyric about a disappointed dreamer returning home.

Celebrity can happen virtually overnight, but it’s a big if, and in the meantime “weeks turn into years.” In the freeway culture of Southern California, those looking for the big time may be as likely, in this setting, to be pumping gas as waiting on tables.

It’s all insubstantial and transitory. In the end, the song’s symbol of home, San Jose (not the high-tech center it is now, but a farming community filled with orchids), feels as elusive as L.A.

So, why waste one’s life and stick around for a quest so empty and unfulfilling for so many? It’s that single line, the song’s single light in the darkness: “With a dream in your heart you're never alone.” The songwriting partners could surely relate to that, with Bacharach noting that he “knew  all nine floors” of New York’s fabled Brill Building, where he had to endure constant rejection from the music publishers gathered there.

Warwick did not warm to these lyrics. “It was not one of my favorite songs that Hal David wrote,” she told People Magazine’s Liz McNeil in a 2019 interview. “I just couldn’t imagine Hal writing a lyric that had ‘whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa….'”

Her lack of faith in the song manifested itself initially in her first try at it. “When she performed it at the recording session, I think it was the only time during that period we didn't get a vocal from her that was good enough to use,” Bacharach recalled for Michael Fremer in a 1985 interview for Analog Planet Magazine. “So we had to bring her back into the studio to have her overdub her vocals."

The songwriting duo’s persuasion finally produced the desired result. "Do You Know the Way to San Jose" (asked rhetorically, so, oddly enough, there’s no question mark in the title) sold 3.5 million copies and earned Warwick a Grammy for Best Contemporary-Pop Vocal Performance, Female.

Or, as the singer told McNeil laughingly, she “cried all the way to the bank. What can I tell you?”

(The image accompanying this post shows David on the left and Bacharach on the right, with Warwick between them—anchoring this picture, as she did with so many of their songs.)

Photo of the Day: William E. Cook Park, Cresskill NJ

I took this photo this afternoon, while driving a few miles from where I live in Bergen County, NJ.