Thinking of Ray Bradbury, as I suppose most of us were yesterday after learning of his death, I found my reminiscences of his work mixing with what was to have been today’s topic, solar sails and their beamed sail counterparts. I’ve read almost all of Bradbury’s work up through the 1960s and admittedly little after that, but he’s a writer I return to often to try to recapture the early magic. I was going through his stories trying to think of one involving solar sails and I came up blank, but in a moment of pure serendipity, I realized that a book I mentioned yesterday held a little Bradbury gem that was all about sails and their implications for the human imagination.

The book is Arthur C. Clarke’s collection Project Solar Sail (Roc, 1990), which contains a poem Bradbury wrote with Jonathan V. Post called “To Sail Beyond the Sun: A Luminous Collage.” Like so much of Bradbury’s work, it uses language like witchcraft to pull you into the experience, and like so much of the later Bradbury, it’s a bit overwrought in places, yet when it hits the right note — and it does this more often than not — the poem weaves a kind of enchantment:

And so we earn what we shall dare
Tossed from the central sun
We with our own concentric fires
Blaze and burn
Burn and blaze. Until we feel
Once at the hub of wakening
the vast starwheel…

Of course, it’s hard to separate out what is Bradbury’s and what his co-author’s work, but the Bradbury lyricism is the dominant force, a deep music that goes back to his pulp magazine days. That music offers the rich counterpoint to The Martian Chronicles, themselves composed as short stories for the magazine market before being assembled into a coherent sequence. In places in this poem there is a taste of Gerard Manley Hopkins, and in both Hopkins and Bradbury an echo of the sturdy alliterative line that drove early Anglo-Saxon verse. You can hear that in places like this:

Small sparks, large sun —
All one, it is the same.
Large flame or small
as long as my heart is young
the flavor of the night lies on my tongue…

The Universe is thronged with fire and light,
And we but smaller suns which, skinned, trapped and kept
where we have dreamed, and laughed, and wept
Enshrined in blood and precious bones,
with heartbeat’s rhythms, passion’s tones
Hold back the night…

I came to Ray Bradbury through a 1955 collection called The October Country, a battered paperback copy of which I still have on my shelves. It was a challenging approach for a boy who had never encountered what a deft writer could do with the macabre — many of these tales were written for Weird Tales (they later appeared as part of a collection called Dark Carnival before finding their way into The October Country) and they pushed psychic buttons I didn’t know existed. I particularly recall “Skeleton,” a story about a man who develops a phobia about the bones inside his body, and “The Jar,” which caused me to put the book aside for a week before working up the nerve to see what could possibly follow it. I would have been about ten at the time.

Bradbury had a long career in the pulps, and somewhere in this office I have a copy of “Pendulum,” his first professionally published story, which appeared in Super Science Stories in November of 1941. Of course, he would soon move into the glossy magazines and win acclaim for the prescient and eerie fiction of The Illustrated Man (1951) and Fahrenheit 451 (1953) and soon he was a cultural icon, working for Hollywood, producing plays, poems and essays and always turning out his 1000 words a day, a practice he recommended in Zen and the Art of Writing (1990). I taught The Martian Chronicles a couple of times while working as a teaching assistant at a university and loved introducing new readers to his sense of language.

John Scalzi wrote about his first experience with The Martian Chronicles in an introduction to the Subterranean Press edition, available online as Meeting the Wizard:

The Martian Chronicles is not a child’s book, but it is an excellent book to give to a child—or to give to the right child, which I flatter myself that I was—because it is a book that is full of awakening. Which means, simply, that when you read it, you can feel parts of your brain clicking on, becoming sensitized to the fact that something is happening here, in this book, with these words, even if you can’t actually communicate to anyone outside of your own head just what that something is. I certainly couldn’t have, in the sixth grade—I simply didn’t have the words. As I recall, I didn’t much try: I just sat there staring down at the final line of the book, with the Martians staring back at me, simply trying to process what I had just read.

Obituaries are out there by the score, like this one in the New York Times and another good one in The Guardian, so there is no need to run through all the statistics. But it’s fun to hear the stories around the edges. Back in 2006, the public library in Fayetteville, AR was highlighting Fahrenheit 451 in a city-wide ‘Big Read’ event. Bradbury was corresponding with the assistant director of the library about all this and in the process reminisced about the composition of “The Fireman,” the short story from which Fahrenheit 451 would eventually grow. Shaun Usher recently reprinted the letter on his wonderful Letters of Note site, from which I quote:

I needed an office and had no money for one. Then one day I was wandering around U.C.L.A. and I heard typing down below in the basement of the library. I discovered there was a typing room where you could rent a typewriter for ten cents a half hour. I moved into the typing room along with a bunch of students and my bag of dimes, which totaled $9.80, which I spent and created the 25,000 word version of “The Fireman” in nine days. How could I have written so many words so quickly? It was because of the library. All of my friends, all of my loved ones, were on the shelves above and shouted, yelled and shrieked at me to be creative. So I ran up and down the stairs, finding books and quotes to put in my “Fireman” novella. You can imagine how exciting it was to do a book about book burning in the very presence of the hundreds of my beloveds on the shelves. It was the perfect way to be creative; that’s what the library does.

This morning my newspaper contains an account of Bradbury’s distrust of colleges and universities. He liked libraries better and thought they were the place to learn, the place where he could tap the energies of the great writers who had gone before and fine-tune what he called his “passionate output.” Passionate it was, and so was the man in every respect. Just last week he appeared in The New Yorker to discuss his inspiration, describing his frenzy over reading early issues of Hugo Gernsback’s Amazing Stories and remembering in particular one magic discovery that would change his life:

My next madness happened in 1931, when Harold Foster’s first series of Sunday color panels based on Edgar Rice Burroughs’s “Tarzan” appeared, and I simultaneously discovered, next door at my uncle Bion’s house, the “John Carter of Mars” books. I know that “The Martian Chronicles” would never have happened if Burroughs hadn’t had an impact on my life at that time.

I memorized all of “John Carter” and “Tarzan,” and sat on my grandparents’ front lawn repeating the stories to anyone who would sit and listen. I would go out to that lawn on summer nights and reach up to the red light of Mars and say, “Take me home!” I yearned to fly away and land there in the strange dusts that blew over dead-sea bottoms toward the ancient cities.

So much of what we try to do here involves engaging the imagination. Neil deGrasse Tyson likes to quote Antoine de Saint-Exupéry on the topic: “If you want to teach someone to sail, you don’t train them how to build a boat. You compel them to long for the open seas.” Ray Bradbury was not a boat-builder, and in his science fiction he was content to leave the details of construction to others. His driving wish, deep and unquenchable, was to awaken in his readers the same passion for raw experience he found within himself, by invoking the small events that define all our lives. Midnight carnivals, small town summers and rockets cutting into the dawn became his working materials, lighting fires that for many of us will burn long after he is laid to rest.

tzf_img_post