Bradbury Stories: 100 of His Most Celebrated Tales by Ray Bradbury
By Ray Bradbury
Original 12 months of publication: 2003; pb - 2005
For greater than sixty years, the mind's eye of Ray Bradbury has opened doorways into impressive areas, ushering us throughout unexplored territories of the guts and brain whereas major us inexorably towards a profound figuring out of ourselves and the universe we inhabit. during this landmark quantity, America's preeminent storyteller bargains us 100 treasures from a life of phrases and concepts. The tales inside of those pages have been selected through Bradbury himself, and span a occupation that blossomed within the pulp magazines of the early Nineteen Forties and maintains to flourish within the new millennium. listed here are representatives of the mythical author's most interesting works of brief fiction, together with many who haven't been republished for many years, all perpetually clean and important, evocative and immensely entertaining.
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I am the most slavish of students, with here a dictionary, there a note-book in which I enter curious uses of the past participle. But one cannot go on for ever cutting these ancient inscriptions clearer with a knife. Shall I always draw the red-serge curtain close and see my book, laid like a block of marble, pale under the lamp? That would be a glorious life, to addict oneself to perfection; to follow the curve of the sentence wherever it might lead, into deserts, under drifts of sand, regardless of lures, of seductions; to be poor always and unkempt; to be ridiculous in Piccadilly.
Then I shall drop you. ‘I am one person – myself. I do not impersonate Catullus, whom I adore. I am the most slavish of students, with here a dictionary, there a note-book in which I enter curious uses of the past participle. But one cannot go on for ever cutting these ancient inscriptions clearer with a knife. Shall I always draw the red-serge curtain close and see my book, laid like a block of marble, pale under the lamp? That would be a glorious life, to addict oneself to perfection; to follow the curve of the sentence wherever it might lead, into deserts, under drifts of sand, regardless of lures, of seductions; to be poor always and unkempt; to be ridiculous in Piccadilly.
But now we have regained our territory after that brief brush with the bicycles and the lime scent and the vanishing figures in the distracted street. Here we are masters of tranquillity and order; inheritors of proud tradition. The lights are beginning to make yellow slits across the square. Mists from the river are filling these ancient spaces. They cling, gently, to the hoary stone. The leaves now are thick in country lanes, sheep cough in the damp fields; but here in your room we are dry. We talk privately.