Рассказы рэя брэдбери на английском языке. Ray Bradbury - Английский язык с Р. Брэдбери. И грянул гром. Пер. Норы Галь

В представленной адаптации были собраны одиннадцать коротеньких рассказов всемирно известного американского сочинителя-фантаста Рэя Брэдбери, которые написались ним в различные годы ХХ века. Видение будущего в рассказах маэстро-сочинителя не всегда является безоблачным – особенно это читается в таких рассказах, как: The Pedestrian, All summer in a day, The Veldt. Фантастическое окружение способствует созданию текста на грани притчи (Death and the maiden), а также психологического изыскания (The best of all possible worlds, A scent of sarsaparilla). Неподражаемая авторская речь и тончайший юмор качественно дополняют сочинения Брэдбери, которые отлично знают и чтят во всем мире. Малообъемные рассказы, около четырех с небольшим тысяч знаков, могут использоваться для домашнего чтения и обговаривания на уроках. По доброй традиции в книжку помещены постраничное комментирование, словарик сложной лексики и удачно подобранные упражнения. Уровень адаптации – Pre-Intermediate.

Рэй Бредбери. И грянул гром

(звук грома)

Рассказ адаптировала Наталья Федченко

Метод чтения Ильи Франка

Метод чтения Ильи Франка

Каждый текст разбит на небольшие отрывки. Сначала идет адаптированный отрывок - текст с вкрапленным в него дословным русским переводом и небольшим лексическим комментарием. Затем следует тот же текст, но уже неадаптированный, без подсказок.

Конечно, сначала на вас хлынет поток неизвестных слов и форм. Этого не нужно бояться: никто никого по ним не экзаменует. По мере чтения (пусть это произойдет хоть в середине или даже в конце книги) все «утрясется», и вы будете, пожалуй, удивляться: «Ну зачем опять дается перевод, зачем опять приводится исходная форма слова, все ведь и так понятно!» Когда наступает такой момент, «когда и так понятно», стоит уже читать наоборот: сначала неадаптированную часть, а потом заглядывать в адаптированную. (Этот же способ чтения можно рекомендовать и тем, кто осваивает язык не с нуля.)

Язык по своей природе - средство, а не цель, поэтому он лучше всего усваивается не тогда, когда его специально учат, а когда им естественно пользуются - либо в живом общении, либо погрузившись в занимательное чтение. Тогда он учится сам собой, подспудно.

Наша память тесно связана с тем, что мы чувствуем в какой-либо конкретный момент, зависит от нашего внутреннего состояния, от того, насколько мы «разбужены» сейчас (а не от того, например, сколько раз мы повторим какую-нибудь фразу или сколько выполним упражнений).

Для запоминания нужна не сонная, механическая зубрежка или вырабатывание каких-то навыков, а новизна впечатлений. Чем несколько раз повторить слово, лучше повстречать его в разных сочетаниях и в разных смысловых контекстах. Основная масса общеупотребительной лексики при том чтении, которое вам предлагается, запоминается без зубрежки, естественно - за счет повторяемости слов. Поэтому, прочитав текст, не нужно стараться заучить слова из него. «Пока не усвою, не пойду дальше» - этот принцип здесь не подходит. Чем интенсивнее человек будет читать, чем быстрее бежать вперед - тем лучше. В данном случае, как ни странно, чем поверхностнее, чем расслабленнее, тем лучше. И тогда объем материала делает свое дело, количество переходит в качество. Таким образом, все, что требуется от читателя, - это просто почитывать, думая не об иностранном языке, который по каким-либо причинам приходится учить, а о содержании книги.

Если вы действительно будете читать интенсивно, то метод сработает. Главная беда всех изучающих долгие годы один какой-либо язык в том, что они занимаются им понемножку, а не погружаются с головой. Язык - не математика, его надо не учить, к нему надо привыкать. Здесь дело не в логике и не в памяти, а в навыке. Он скорее похож в этом смысле на спорт, которым нужно заниматься в определенном режиме, так как в противном случае не будет результата. Если сразу и много читать, то свободное чтение на новом языке - вопрос трех-четырех месяцев (начиная «с нуля»). А если учить помаленьку, то это только себя мучить и буксовать на месте. Язык в этом смысле похож на ледяную горку - на нее надо быстро взбежать. Пока не взбежите - будете скатываться. Если достигается такой момент, что человек свободно читает, то он уже не потеряет этот навык и не забудет лексику, даже если возобновит чтение на этом языке лишь через несколько лет. А если не доучил - тогда все выветрится.

А что делать с грамматикой? Собственно для понимания текста, снабженного такими подсказками, знание грамматики уже не нужно - и так все будет понятно. А затем происходит привыкание к определенным формам - и грамматика усваивается тоже подспудно. Это похоже на то, как осваивают же язык люди, которые никогда не учили его грамматики, а просто попали в соответствующую языковую среду. Я говорю это не к тому, чтобы вы держались подальше от грамматики (грамматика - очень интересная и полезная вещь), а к тому, что приступать к чтению подобной книги можно и без особых грамматических познаний, достаточно самых элементарных. Данное чтение можно рекомендовать уже на самом начальном этапе.

Такие книги помогут вам преодолеть важный барьер: вы наберете лексику и привыкнете к логике языка, сэкономив много времени и сил.

Ray Bradbury. A Sound of Thunder

The sign on the wall seemed to quaver under a film of sliding warm water (вывеска на стене, казалось, дрожала под пленкой скользящей теплой воды) . Eckels felt his eyelids blink over his stare (почувствовал его веки мигнуть = почувствовал, как его веки мигнули над его взглядом) , and the sign burned in this momentary darkness (и вывеска горела в этой минутной тьме) :

TIME SAFARI (временнóе сафари) , INC. (Incorporated, зарегистрированный как корпорация, т.е. фирма «Сафари во времени»)

SAFARIS TO ANY YEAR IN THE PAST (сафари /мн. ч./ в любой год в прошлом) .

YOU NAME THE ANIMAL (вы называете животное) .

WE TAKE YOU THERE (мы доставляем вас туда) .

YOU SHOOT IT (вы стреляете в него) .

Warm phlegm gathered in Eckels" throat (теплая слизь собралась /накопилась/ в горле Экельса) ; he swallowed and pushed it down (он глотнул и протолкнул ее вниз) . The muscles around his mouth formed a smile (мышцы вокруг его рта образовали улыбку) as he put his hand slowly out upon the air (когда он вытянул руку медленно в воздух) , and in that hand waved a check for ten thousand dollars to the man behind the desk (и в его руке колыхался чек на десять тысяч долларов для человека за письменным столом) .

"Does this safari guarantee I come back alive (гарантирует ли это сафари, что я вернусь домой живым) ?" "We guarantee nothing (мы ничего не гарантируем) ," said the official (сказал служащий) , "except the dinosaurs (кроме динозавров) ." He turned (он повернулся) . "This is Mr. Travis, your Safari Guide in the Past (это мистер Тревис, ваш проводник в Прошлое) . He"ll tell you what and where to shoot (он скажет вам, что и где стрелять) . If he says no shooting, no shooting (если он скажет не стрелять, не стрелять) . If you disobey instructions, there"s a stiff penalty of another ten thousand dollars (если вы ослушаетесь инструкций, существует жесткий штраф еще на десять тысяч долларов) , plus possible government action, on your return (плюс возможные действия правительства после вашего возвращения) ."

The sign on the wall seemed to quaver under a film of sliding warm water. Eckels felt his eyelids blink over his stare, and the sign burned in this momentary darkness:

TIME SAFARI, INC.

SAFARIS TO ANY YEAR IN THE PAST.

YOU NAME THE ANIMAL.

WE TAKE YOU THERE.

Warm phlegm gathered in Eckels" throat; he swallowed and pushed it down. The muscles around his mouth formed a smile as he put his hand slowly out upon the air, and in that hand waved a check for ten thousand dollars to the man behind the desk.

"Does this safari guarantee I come back alive?"

"We guarantee nothing," said the official, "except the dinosaurs." He turned. "This is Mr. Travis, your Safari Guide in the Past. He"ll tell you what and where to shoot. If he says no shooting, no shooting. If you disobey instructions, there"s a stiff penalty of another ten thousand dollars, plus possible government action, on your return."

Eckels glanced across the vast office at a mass and tangle (взглянул через просторный офис «на кучу и путаницу» = на кучу чего-то спутанного) , a snaking and humming of wires and steel boxes (/на/ извивание и жужжание проводов и стальные коробки: snake - змея) , at an aurora (на сияние: aurora - заря) that flickered now orange, now silver, now blue (которое вспыхивало то оранжевым, то серебряным, то синим) . There was a sound like a gigantic bonfire burning all of Time (то был звук, похожий на гигантский костер, сжигающий полностью Время) , all the years and all the parchment calendars (все годы и все пергаментные календари /летописи/) , all the hours piled high and set aflame (все часы, сваленные высоко в кучу и подожженные) .

A touch of the hand and this burning would (прикосновение руки и это горение бы) , on the instant (мгновенно) , beautifully reverse itself (прекрасно повернулось вспять) . Eckels remembered the wording in the advertisements to the letter (помнил формулировку в объявлении /с точностью/ до буквы) . Out of chars and ashes (из пепла и золы) , out of dust and coals (из пыли и углей) , like golden salamanders (как золотистые саламандры) , the old years, the green years (старые годы, зеленые = молодые годы) , might leap (могли бы выскочить = подняться) ; roses sweeten the air (розы услаждают воздух) , white hair turn Irish-black (белые /седые/ волосы становятся черными, как у ирландцев) , wrinkles vanish (морщины исчезают) ; all, everything fly back to seed (всё и все возвращаются /«летят»/обратно в семя) , flee death (убегают от смерти) , rush down to their beginnings (бросаются к своим истокам) , suns rise in western skies and set in glorious easts (солнца восходят на западных небесах и садятся на великолепных востоках) , moons eat themselves opposite to the custom (луны съедают себя вопреки обычаю = убывают с другого конца) , all and everything cupping one in another like Chinese boxes (все и всё складывающееся одно в другое как китайские коробочки /по принципу матрешки/) , rabbits into hats (/как/ кролики в шляпы) , all and everything returning to the fresh death (все и всё, возвращающееся к свежей /новой/ смерти) , the seed death (смерти семени) , the green death (зеленой смерти) , to the time before the beginning (ко времени до начала = к началу начал) . A touch of a hand might do it (прикосновение руки могло бы сделать это) , the merest touch of a hand (простейшее прикосновение руки) .

Сегодня читаем короткие рассказы на английском языке . Рассказ Рэя Брэдбери «Крик из-под земли» (Ray Bradbury. The Screaming Woman) относится к уровню СРЕДНИЙ. Этот рассказ очень интересный с неожиданным концом. Прилагаются слова для изучения и комментарии. К сайту подключен словарь и если вы не знаете слово, то кликните по нему 2 раза кнопкой мыши и выберите подходящий перевод. Изучайте английский язык с нами. Удачи!

Слова, которые вы будете знать, если прочитаете эту историю:

1. scream – 1. крик; 2. кричать
2. pay no attention to smb – не уделять внимания кому-то .
3. the bombed site – пустырь
4. broken glass – битое стекло
5. dirt – грязь
6. rocks – камни
7. rubbish – мусор
8. stuff – дрянь, хлам
9. hole – яма
10. ground – земля
11. bury – захоронить
12. dig out (excavate) – выкапывать
13. fill – наполнить
14. shed – сарай
15. spade – лопата
16. shovel – совок
17. choke – задыхаться
18. suffocate – умереть от недостатка воздуха
19. keep screaming – продолжать кричать
20. cry for help – звать на помощь

Ray Bradbury. The Screaming Woman. Рart 1 (Часть 1)

Грамматический комментарий к первой части:

• like – зд. как (предлог) – второе значение; like – нравиться (глагол) – первое значение

ПРИМЕРЫ
like ours – как наша
like burying people – как закапывать людей

• go on – продолжать что-то делать

ПРИМЕР go on buttering your toast – продолжать намазывать хлеб маслом

My name is Margaret Leary and I’m ten years old. I haven’t any brothers or sisters, but I’ve got a nice father and mother but they don’t pay much attention to me. And anyway, we never thought, we would have anything to do with a murdered woman. Or almost, anyway.

<…> we would have anything to do with a murdered woman. — <…> нам приедется иметь дело с убитой женщиной.

When you are living in a road like ours , you don’t think about awful things that are going to happen, like burying people under the ground , practically in your back garden. And when it does happen, you don’t believe it. You just go on buttering your toast or baking a cake.

I’ll tell you how it happened. It was in the middle of July. It was hot and Mother said to me: “Margaret, you go to the shop and buy some ice-cream. It’s Saturday. Dad’s home for lunch, so we’ll have a treat.”

I ran across the bombed site behind our house. It was a place where kids played and there was broken glass and stuff.

On my way back from the shop with the ice-cream I was just walking along, when all of a sudden it happened.

I heard the Screaming Woman. I stopped and listened. It was coming from out of the ground. A woman was buried under the rocks and dirt and glass, and was screaming, all wild and horrible, for someone to dig her out.

I just stood there, afraid, and she kept screaming . Then I started to run. I fell down, got up again and ran some more.

Ray Bradbury. The Screaming Woman. Рart 2 (Часть 2)

Грамматический комментарий ко второй части:
We’ve got to – Нам придется (оборот аналогичный have to — приходится)

ПРИМЕР. We have got to dig her out. — Нам придется ее выкопать.

I opened the door of our house and there was Mother, calm and not knowing what I knew, that there was a real live woman buried at the back of our house, just a hundred yards away, crying for help.
«Don’t just stand there with the ice-cream melting,» said Mother.
«But, Mum» I said.
«Put it in the fridge,» she said.
«Listen, Mum, there’s a Screaming Woman…»
«And wash your hands,» said Mother.
«She was screaming and screaming …Listen to me,» I said, loudly. «We’ve got to dig her out. She‘s buried under tons and tons of dirt and if we don’t dig her out , she’ll choke and die.»
«I’m certain she can wait until after lunch,» said Mother.
«Mum, don’t you believe me?»
«Of course, dear. Now wash your hands and take this plate in to your father.»
«I don’t even know who she is or how she got there,» I said. «But we’ve got to help her before it’s too late.»
«Good heavens.» said Mother. «Look at this ice-cream. What did you do, just stand in the sun and let it melt?»

Ray Bradbury. The Screaming Woman. Рart 3 (Часть 3)

• I don’t feel like an archaeologist – У меня нет желаний быть археологом сейчас
• It took me – зд. Мне потребовалось; (It takes – требуется)
• feel like a real meanie – чувствовать себя настоящим злодеем
• free of charge – бесплатно (устойч. выражение)

I went into the dining-room.
«Dad, there’s a Screaming Woman in the bombed site. »
«You look very unhappy,» said Father.»We’ve got to get spades and shovels and excavate » I said.
«I don’t feel like an archaeologist , Margaret,» said Father. «It’s too hot now. Some nice cool October day, we’ll do it, I promise.»
«But we can’t wait that long,» I almost screamed. I was excited and scared and here was Dad, putting meat on his plate and paying me no attention.
«Dad?» I said.
«Mm?»
«Dad, you’ve just got to come out after lunch and help me,» I said. «Dad, Dad, I’ll give you all the money in my piggy bank!»
«Well,» said Dad. «So, it’s a business, isn’t it? It must be important for you if you give me your money. How much money will you pay by the hour?»
«I’ve got ten shillings. It took me a year to save, and it’s all yours.»
Dad touched my arm.
«Oh, you want me to play with you and pay for my time. Margaret, your old Dad feel like a real meanie . I don’t pay much attention to you, I think. Tell you what, after lunch I’ll come out and listen to your screaming woman, free of charge. »
«Will you, oh, will you, really?»
«Yes,» said Dad. «But you must promise me one thing.»
«What?»
«If I come out, you must eat all of your lunch first.»
«I promise,» I said.
Mother came in and sat down and we started to eat.
«Not so fast,» she said. I slowed down. Then I started eating fast again.
«You heard your mother,» said Dad.
«The Screaming Woman,» I said. «We must hurry.»
«I,» said Father, «will sit here quietly and give my attention first to my steak, then to my ice-cream, and then to my beer. And another thing, young lady, if you say her name, this screaming woman, once more at this table during lunch, I won’t go out with you to hear her.»
«Yes, sir.»
«Is that understood?»
«Yes, sir,» I said.

Ray Bradbury. The Screaming Woman. Рart 4 (Часть 4)

• nearly married – чуть не женился
• I feel sorrу for her – Мне жаль ее
• a terrible brute – ужасное чудовище
• had the lead in our school play – играла ведущую роль в пьесе
• either – тоже (в отличие от too упоотребляется в отрицат. предл.)

Грамматический комментарий к третьей части:
I had to – Мне пришлось (констр. have to — приходится в прош. времени)

Lunch was a million years long. Everybody moved very slowly, like in those films you see sometimes. Mother got up slowly and sat down slowly, and forks and knives and spoons moved slowly. Even the flies in the room were slow. It was all so slow I wanted to scream, «Hurry! Oh, please, get up, run around, come on, run!»
But no, I had to sit and wait while father and mother were eating their lunch. And the Screaming Woman was all alone.
«The lunch was very good,» said Dad, when he finished at last.
«Now will you come out to see the Screaming Woman?» I said.
«First a little more iced beer,» said Dad.
«Speaking of screaming women,» said Mother, «Charlie Nesbitt and his wife Helen were fighting again last night.»
«That’s nothing new,» said Father. «They’re always fighting.»
«If you ask me, I don’t like Charlie,» said Mother, «and her, either .»
«Well, I don’t know,» said Dad. «I think she’s quite nice.»
«Oh, I see. After all, you nearly married her.»
«That’s all in the past.» he said.
«I feel sorrу for Helen. She was sweet. Sweet and kind. But now she is very unhappy. Her husband is a terrible brute »
«Dad,» I said.
«Yes, Charlie often gets very angry.» said Dad. «Remember when Helen had the lead in our school play ? Pretty as a picture. She wrote some songs for it herself. That was the time she wrote that song for me.»
«Ha,» said Mother.
«Don’t laugh. It was a good song.»
«You never told me about that song.»
«It was between Helen and me. Let me sing it to you.»
«Dad,» I said.
«You promised your daughter to go with her to the bombed site ,» said Mother, «You can sing me that wonderful song later.»
«O.K, come on,» said Dad, and I ran him out of the house.

Ray Bradbury. The Screaming Woman. Рart 5 (Часть 5)

• put a damp cloth on your forehead – положить мокрое полотенце на лоб
• I don’t hear anything – я ничего не слышу
• I heard her screaming – Я слышала, как она кричала.
• lie – 1. лежать 2. лгать (2 значения)

The bombed site was still empty and hot.
«Now, where’s this Screaming Woman?» laughed Dad.
«We forgot the spades ,» I cried.
«We’ll get them later, after we hear her,» said Dad.
«Listen,» I said. We listened.
«I don’t hear anything, » said Dad, at last.
«Shh,» I said. «Wait.»
We listened some more. «Hullo there, Screaming Woman!» I cried.
We heard the sun in the sky. We heard the wind in the trees, really quiet. We heard a train, far away. That was all.
«Margaret,» said Father, «You must go home, lie on your bed and put a damp cloth on your forehead.»
«But she was here,» I shouted, «I heard her screaming and screaming and screaming. See here.» I called: «Hey, you down there!»
«Margaret,» said Father, «this is the place where Mr. Kelly dug a big hole yesterday, to bury his rubbish in.»
«You won’t help me dig ?»
“I’m going back home. Don’t be here too long,» said Dad. Dad went away. I heard the back door shut.
* * *

Ray Bradbury. The Screaming Woman. Рart 6 (Часть 6)

Используем языковую догадку:

Скорее всего, вы уже запомнили подчеркнутые слова. Теперь попробуйте, читая текст, догадаться о значении слов, выделенных курсивом (ниже перевод некоторых из них) :
Damn! — Черт побери!
rest — отдыхать
perhaps — возможно
Jiminy cricket! — Быть того не может!
voice — голос
shook his head — покачал головой
arms folded — сложив руки
He’s the one. -Это он.
There’s only one thing to do. — Единственное, что остается сделать.

I stamped on the ground . «Damn! ,» I said.
The screaming started again. She screamed and screamed. Maybe she had been tired and was resting and now began it all over again.
I stood on the bombed site in the hot sun and I felt like crying. I ran back to the house and banged the door.
«Dad, she’s screaming again!»
«Yes, yes, of course she is,» said Dad.
I began to cry but Dad paid no attention .
I ran to the shed , got spades and I ran to the bombed site. It was hotter than ever. And I started to dig , and while I dug , the Screaming Woman screamed …
It was hard work. And I knew I would be doing it all afternoon and perhaps I wouldn’t finish in time. What could I do? Run and tell other people? But they’d be like Mum and Dad, pay no attention. I just kept digging , all by myself.
About ten minutes later, Dippy Smith came across the bombed site. He’s my age and goes to my school.
«Hullo, Margaret,» he said.
«Hullo, Dippy!»
«What’re you doing?» he asked.
«Digging.»
«What for?»
«I’ve got a Screaming Lady in the ground and I’m digging for her,» I said.
«I don’t hear any screaming,» said Dippy.
«You sit down and wait a while and you’ll hear her scream. Or better, help me dig .»
«I won’t dig unless I hear a scream,» he said.
He waited. «Listen,» I cried. «Did you HEAR it?»
A scream came out of the ground.
«Jiminy cricket!» said Dippy. «Teach me to do it!»
«If you help dig, I’ll tell you about it, later,» I lied, because I wanted him to help.
«Fine,» he said. «Give me a spade .»
We both dug together, and from time to time the woman screamed.
«Oh,» said Dippy, «I’m tired. I think I’ll go home and have a rest .»
«You can’t do that.»
«Who says so?»
«Dippy, there’s something I want to tell you.»
«What?»
I whispered in his ear, «There’s really a woman buried here.»
«Why, of course there is,» he said. «You told me, Maggie.»
«You don’t believe me, either .»
«Tell me how you do it your voice and I’ll keep on digging.»
«But I can’t tell you, because I’m not doing it,» I said. «Look, Dippy, I’ll stand over here and you listen there.”
The Screaming Woman screamed again.
«NO!» said Dippy. «But there really IS a woman!»
«That’s what I tried to say.»
«Let’s dig !» said Dippy. We dug for twenty min­utes.
«I wonder who she is?»
«I don’t know.»
Just then heard a voice : «Now, you kids, what do you think you’re doing?»
We turned. It was Mr. Kelly.
«Oh, hullo, Mr. Kelly,» we said.
«Tell you what I want you to do,» said Mr. Kelly «I want you to take, those spades and take that soil and put it all back in that hole you’ve been dig ging. That’s what I want you to do.»
My heart started beating fast again. I wanted toscream myself.
«But Mr. Kelly, there’s a Screaming Woman and …»
«I’m not interested. I can’t hear a thing.»
«Listen!» I cried. The scream.
Mr. Kelly listened and shook his head . «Can`t hearanything. Go on now, fill it up!»
We filled the hole all back in again. And all the time we filled it in, Mr. Kelly stood there, arms folded , and the woman screamed but Mr. Kelly pretended not to hear it.
When we were finished, Mr. Kelly said, «Go on home now. And if I catch you hereagain …»
I turned to Dippy. «He’s the one ,» I whispered.
«What?» said Dippy.
«He murdered Mrs. Kelly. He buried her here in a box. Why he stood right here and she screamed and he wouldn’t pay any attention .» ‘
«Yes,» said Dippy, «that’s right. He stood right here and lied to us.»
«There’s only one thing to do , » I said. «Call the police and they come and arrest Mr. Kelly.”
We ran for the corner telephone box.

Ray Bradbury. The Screaming Woman. Рart 7 (Часть 7)

• in the bushes – в кустах
• I beg your pardon. – Прошу прощения.
• Sorry to have troubled you. – Извините, что побеспокоили Вас.
• blasted kids – проклятые дети
• W e’re really in trouble. – У нас неприятности.
• his strap – ремень
• sort of deaf – вроде как глухой
• There was only one last thing to do. – Оставалось последнее.
• Is anyone missing from your house? – Никто не пропал из вашего дома?
• I was just about to give up. – Я готова была сдаться.

The police knocked on Mr. Kelly’s door five minutes later. Dippy and I were hiding in the bushes listening.
«Mr. Kelly?» said the police officer.
«Yes, sir, what can I do for you?»
«Is Mrs. Kelly at home?»
«Yes, sir.»
«May we see her, sir?»
«Of course. Hey, Anna!»
Mrs. Kelly came to the door and looked out. «Yes, sir?»
«I beg your pardon ,» said the officer. «We had a report that you were buried out in the bombed site , Mrs. Kelly. Sorry to have troubled you .»
«It’s those blasted kids ,» cried Mr. Kelly angrily.
We both ran.
«What shall we do now?» I said.
«I’ve got to go home,» said Dippy. «Gosh, we’re really in trouble .»
«But what about the Screaming Woman?»
«Forget about her,» said Dippy. «We can’t go there again. Old man Kelly will be waiting around with his strap . And I just remem­bered, Maggie, old man Kelly is sort of deaf ”
«Oh, my ,» I said. «No wonder he didn’t hear the screams.»
«So long,» said Dippy. «I’ll be seeing you.»
I was left all alone in the world, no one to help me, no one to believe me at all. There was only one last thing to do , and I did it.
I went from house to house, all down the road. And I rang every bell and when the door opened I said: «Excuse me, Mrs. Griswold, but is anyone missing from your house ?»
It was getting late. I kept thinking, oh, there’s only so little air in that box with that woman under the earth, and if I don’t hurry, she’ll suffocate ! So I rang bells and knocked on doors, and it got late, and I was just about to give up and go home, when I knocked on the last door, which was the door of Mr. Charlie Nesbitt, who lives next to us. I kept knocking and knocking.

RayBradbury. The Screaming Woman. Рart 8 (Часть 8, последняя)

• be calm – быть спокойной
• be casual – казаться небрежным
• It was all over. – Все было кончено.
• hardly – едва
• – «Я любила тебя, наша любовь была прекрасна.»
• «Last one there’s a monkey .» – Кто быстрее?

Mr. Nesbitt opened the door.
«Oh,» he said. «It’s you, Margaret.»
«Yes,» I said. «Good afternoon.»
«What can I do for you?» he said.
«Well, I thought I would like to see your wife, Mrs. Nesbitt,» I said.
«Oh,» he said.
«May I?»
«Well, she’s gone out to the shops,» he said.
«I’ll wait,» I said, and came in.
I sat down in a chair. «It’s a hot day,» I said, trying to be calm , thinking about the bombed site and air going out of the box, and the screams getting weaker and weaker.
«Listen,» said Charlie, coming to me. –“My wife won’t be back,» he said.
«But Mr. Nesbitt,» I said, «why not?»
«Not today, that is. She’s gone to the shops, as I said, but -but then she’s going to visit her mother. She’ll be back in two or three days, perhaps a week.»
«I wanted to tell her something.»
“WHAT?»
«I just wanted to tell her there’s a woman buried in the bombed site, screaming.»
Mr. Nesbitt dropped his cigarette.
«You’ve dropped your cigarette, Mr. Nesbitt,»
«Have I? Oh, yes.» he said.
«It’s a real woman.»
«How do you know it is?»
«I heard her.»
«Margaret, did you - er - did you say anything about this to anyone?»-he said, lighting another cigarette. He tried to be casual .
«Yes. I told lots of people»
Mr. Nesbitt burnt his hand on the match.
«Anybody doing anything about it?» he asked.
«No,» I said. «They won’t believe me.» He smiled. «Of course not. You’re only a kid. Why should they listen to you?»
«I must go now,» I said.
«Stay with me a bit,» he insisted.
«Thanks, but no,» I said.
He took my arm. «Know how to play cards?”
«Yes.»
He took out a pack of cards from a desk. «We’ll have a game.»
»I`ve got to go and dig.»
«A lot of time for that,» he said quietly. «Anyway, perhaps my wife will come home. You wait for her. Wait for a while.»
« YOU think she will?»
« Of course. Er-about that voice-is it very strong?”
“It gets weaker all the time.»
Mr. Nesbitt smiled. «You and your childish games. Here now, let’s play cards? - it’s more fun than screaming women.
«I must go. It’s late.»
«Stay a bit.» I knew what he was trying to do. He was trying to keep me in his house until the screaming had stopped. He was trying to keep, me from helping her. «My wife will be home in ten minutes, he said. «You wait. You sit where you are.’
We played cards. The clock ticked . The sun went down the sky. It was getting late. The screaming got weaker and weaker in my mind. «I’ve got to go”, I said.
«Another game,» said Mr. Nesbitt. «Wait another hour. My wife won’t be long. Just wait.»
In another hour he looked at his watch. «Well, I think you can go now.Good-bye, Margaret.» He let me go, because he thought that by now the air must all be gone from the box. The door shut in my face.
I went back near the bombed site. What could I do? Tell my father and mother? But they didn’t believe me. Nobody would believe me!
I ran over to the place where the screaming had been and just stood there. The screaming had stopped, it was so quiet. It was all over. It was too late, I thought. I put my ear against the ground.
And then I heard it, way down, way deep, and weak. I could hardly hear it. The woman wasn`t screaming any more. She was singing. Something about “I loved you fair, I loved you well.”
It was a sort of sad song. Very quiet. All of those hours down under the ground in that box must have made her crazy. She just kept singing, not wanting to scream any more, just singing.
I listened to the song. Then I went home. I opened the front door. «Father,» I said. «So there you are ! » he cried.
«Father,» I said. «She’s not screaming anymore.»
«Don’t talk about her!»
«She’s singing now,» I cried.
«You’re not telling the truth!»
«Dad,» I said, «She’s singing, and this is what she’s singing.» I sang a few of the words- «I loved you fair, I loved you well…»
Dad’s face grew pale. He came and took my arm.
«What did you say?» he said.
I sang it again, «I loved you fair, I loved you well.»
«Where did you hear that song?» he shouted.
«Out in the bombed site, just now.»
«But that’s Helen’s song, the song she wrote, years ago for me.» cried Father. «You can’t know it. Nobody knew it, only Helen and me. I never sang it to anyone, not to you or anyone. Oh, my God!» cried Father, and ran out of the door to get a spade.
The last I saw of him he was on the bombed site, digging, and lots of other people with him, digging. I felt so happy I wanted to cry.
I dialed a number on the phone and when Dippy answered. I said, «Hullo, Dippy. Everything’s fine. Everything’s all right. The Screaming Woman isn’t screaming anymore.»
«Great,» said Dippy.
“I`ll meet you on the bombed site with a spade in two minutes,» I said. «Last one there’s a monkey. So long!» cried Dippy.
“So long, Dippy!» I said, and ran.

You are a child in a small town. You are, to be exact, eight years old, and it is growing late at night. Late for you, accustomed to bedding in at nine or nine-thirty: once in a while perhaps begging Mom or Dad to let you stay up later to hear Sam and Henry on that strange radio that is popular in this year of 1927. But most of the time you are in bed and snug at this time of night.

It is a warm summer evening. You live in a small house on a small street in the outer part of town where there are few street lights. There is only one store open, about a block away: Mrs Singer’s. In the hot evening Mother has been ironing the Monday wash and you have been intermittently begging for ice cream and staring into the dark.

You and your mother are all alone at home in the warm darkness of summer. Finally, just before it is time for Mrs Singer to close her store, Mother relents and tells you:

‘Run get a pint of ice cream and be sure she packs it tight.’

You ask if you can get a scoop of chocolate ice cream on top, because you don’t like vanilla, and Mother agrees. You clutch the money and run barefooted over the warm evening cement sidewalk, under the apple trees and oak trees, toward the store. The town is so quiet and far off, you can only hear the crickets sounding in the spaces beyond the hot indigo trees that hold back the stars.

Your bare feet slap the pavement, you cross the street and find Mrs Singer moving ponderously about her store, singing Yiddish melodies.

‘Pint ice cream?’ she says. ‘Chocolate on top? Yes!’

You watch her fumble the metal top off the ice-cream freezer and manipulate the scoop, packing the cardboard pint chock full with ‘chocolate on top, yes!’ You give the money, receive the chill, icy pack, and rubbing it across your brow and cheek, laughing, you thump barefootedly homeward. Behind you, the lights of the lonely little store blink out and there is only a street light shimmering on the corner, and the whole city seems to be going to sleep…

Opening the screen door you find Mom still ironing. She looks hot and irritated, but she smiles just the same.

‘When will Dad be home from lodge-meeting?’ you ask.

‘About eleven-thirty or twelve,’ Mother replies. She takes the ice cream to the kitchen, divides it. Giving you your special portion of chocolate, she dishes out some for herself and the rest is put away. ‘For Skipper and your father when they come.’

Skipper is your brother. He is your older brother. He’s twelve and healthy, red-faced, hawk-nosed, tawny-haired, broad-shouldered for his years, and always running. He is allowed to stay up later than you. Not much later, but enough to make him feel it is worthwhile having been born first. He is over on the other side of town this evening to a game of kick-the-can and will be home soon. He and the kids have been yelling, kicking, running for hours, having fun. Soon he will come clomping in, smelling of sweat and green grass on his knees where he fell, and smelling very much in all ways like Skipper; which is natural.

You sit enjoying the ice cream. You are at the core of the deep quiet summer night. Your mother and yourself and the night all around this small house on this small street. You lick each spoon of ice cream thoroughly before digging for another, and Mom puts her ironing board away and the hot iron in its case, and she sits in the armchair by the phonograph, eating her dessert and saying, ‘My lands, it was a hot day today. It’s still hot. Earth soaks up all the heat and lets it out at night. It’ll be soggy sleeping.’

You both sit there listening to the summer silence. The dark is pressed down by every window and door, there is no sound because the radio needs a new battery, and you have played all the Knickerbocker Quartet records and Al Jolson and Two Black Crows records to exhaustion: so you just sit on the hardwood floor by the door and look out into the dark dark dark, pressing your nose against the screen until the flesh of its tip is molded into small dark squares.

‘I wonder where your brother is?’ Mother says after a while. Her spoon scrapes on the dish. ‘He should be home by now. It’s almost nine-thirty.’

‘He’ll be here,’ you say, knowing very well that he will be.

You follow Mom out to wash the dishes. Each sound, each rattle of spoon or dish is amplified in the baked evening. Silently, you go to the living room, remove the couch cushions and, together, yank it open and extend it down into the double bed that it secretly is. Mother makes the bed, punching pillows neatly to flump them up for your head. Then, as you are unbuttoning your shirt, she says:

‘Wait awhile, Doug.’

‘Because. I say so.’

‘You look funny, Mom.’

Mom sits down a moment, then stands up, goes to the door, and calls. You listen to her calling and calling Skipper. Skipper, Skiiiiiiiiiperrrrrrrr over and over. Her calling goes out into the summer warm dark and never comes back. The echoes pay no attention.

Skipper, Skipper, Skipper.

And as you sit on the floor a coldness that is not ice cream and not winter, and not part of summer’s heat, goes through you. You notice Mom’s eyes sliding, blinking; the way she stands undecided and is nervous. All of these things.

She opens the screen door. Stepping out into the night she walks down the steps and down the front sidewalk under the lilac bush. You listen to her moving feet.

She calls again. Silence.

She calls twice more. You sit in the room. Any moment now Skipper will reply, from down the long long narrow street:

‘All right, Mom! All right, Mother! Hey!’

But he doesn’t answer. And for two minutes you sit looking at the made-up bed, the silent radio, the silent phonograph, at the chandelier with its crystal bobbins gleaming quietly, at the rug with the scarlet and purple curlicues on it. You stub your toe on the bed purposely to see if it hurts. It does.

Whining, the screen door opens, and Mother says:

‘Come on, Shorts. We’ll take a walk.’

‘Where to?’

‘Just down the block. Come on. Better put your shoes on, though. You’ll catch cold.’

‘No, I won’t. I’ll be all right.’

You take her hand. Together you walk down St James Street. You smell roses in blossom, fallen apples lying crushed and odorous in the deep grass. Underfoot, the concrete is still warm, and the crickets are sounding louder against the darkening dark. You reach a corner, turn, and walk toward the ravine.

Off somewhere, a car goes by, flashing its lights in the distance. There is such a complete lack of life, light, and activity. Here and there, back off from where you are walking toward the ravine, you see faint squares of light where people are still up. But most of the houses, darkened, are sleeping already, and there are a few lightless places where the occupants of a dwelling sit talking low dark talk on their front porches. You hear a porch swing squeaking as you walk near.

‘I wish your father was home,’ says Mother. Her large hand tightens around your small one. ‘Just wait’ll I get that boy. I’ll spank him within an inch of his life.’

A razor strop hangs in the kitchen for this. You think of it, remember when Dad has doubled and flourished it with muscled control over your frantic limbs. You doubt Mother will carry out her promise.

Now you have walked another block and are standing by the holy black silhouette of the German Baptist Church at the corner of Chapel Street and Glen Rock. In back of the church a hundred yards away, the ravine begins. You can smell it. It has a dark sewer, rotten foliage, thick green odor. It is a wide ravine that cuts and twists across the town, a jungle by day, a place to let alone at night, Mother has often declared.

You should feel encouraged by the nearness of the German Baptist Church, but you are not-because th
e building is not illumined, is cold and useless as a pile of ruins on the ravine edge.

You are only eight years old, you know little of death, fear, or dread. Death is the waxen effigy in the coffin when you were six and Grandfather passed away-looking like a great fallen vulture in his casket, silent, withdrawn, no more to tell you how to be a good boy, no more to comment succinctly on politics. Death is your little sister one morning when you awaken at the age of seven, look into her crib and see her staring up at you with a blind blue, fixed and frozen stare until the men come with a small wicker basket to take her away. Death is when you stand by her high chair four weeks later and suddenly realize she’ll never be in it again, laughing and crying, and make you jealous of her because she was born. That is death.

But this is more than death. This summer night wading deep in time and stars and warm eternity. It is an essence of all the things you will ever feel or see or hear in your life again, being brought steadily home to you all at once.

Leaving the sidewalk, you walk along a trodden, pebbled, weed-fringed path to the ravine’s edge. Crickets, in loud full drumming chorus now, are shouting to quiver the dead. You follow obediently behind brave, fine, tall Mother who is defender of all the universe. You feel braveness because she goes before, and you hang back a trifle for a moment, and then hurry on, too. Together, then, you approach, reach, and pause at the very edge of civilization.

Here and now, down there in that pit of jungled blackness is suddenly all the evil you will ever know. Evil you will never understand. All of the nameless things are there. Later, when you have grown you’ll be given names to label them with. Meaningless syllables to describe the waiting nothingness. Down there in the huddled shadow, among thick trees and trailed vines, lives the odor of decay. Here, at this spot, civilization ceases, reason ends, and a universal evil takes over.

You realize you are alone. You and your mother. Her hand trembles.

Her hand trembles.

Your belief in your private world is shattered. You feel Mother tremble. Why? Is she, too, doubtful? But she is bigger, stronger, more intelligent than yourself, isn’t she? Does she, too, feel that intangible menace, that groping out of darkness, that crouching malignancy down below? Is there, then, no strength in growing up? no solace in being an adult? no sanctuary in life? no flesh citadel strong enough to withstand the scrabbling assault of midnights? Doubts flush you. Ice cream lives again in your throat, stomach, spine and limbs; you are instantly cold as a wind out of December-gone.

You realize that all men are like this. That each person is to himself one alone. One oneness, a unit in a society, but always afraid. Like here, standing. If you should scream now, if you should holler for help, would it matter?

You are so close to the ravine now that in the instant of your scream, in the interval between someone hearing it and running to find you, much could happen.

Blackness could come swiftly, swallowing; and in one titanically freezing moment all would be concluded. Long before dawn, long before police with flashlights might probe the disturbed pathway, long before men with trembling brains could rustle down the pebbles to your help. Even if they were within five hundred yards of you now, and help certainly is, in three seconds a dark tide could rise to take all eight years of life away from you and-

The essential impact of life’s loneliness crushes your beginning-to-tremble body. Mother is alone, too. She cannot look to the sanctity of marriage, the protection of her family’s love, she cannot look to the United States Constitution or the City Police, she cannot look anywhere, in this very instant, save into her heart, and there she’ll find nothing but uncontrollable repugnance and a will to fear. In this instant it is an individual problem seeking an individual solution. You must accept being alone and work on from there.

You swallow hard, cling to her. Oh Lord, don’t let her die, please, you think. Don’t do anything to us. Father will be coming home from lodgemeeting in an hour and if the house is empty…?

Mother advances down the path into the primeval jungle. Your voice trembles. ‘Mom. Skip’s all right. Skip’s all right. He’s all right. Skip’s all right.’

Mother’s voice is strained, high. ‘He always comes through here. I tell him not to, but those darned kids, they come through here anyway. Some night he’ll come through and never come out again-’

Never come out again. That could mean anything. Tramps. Criminals. Darkness. Accident. Most of all-death.

Alone in the universe.

There are a million small towns like this all over the world. Each as dark, as lonely, each as removed, as full of shuddering and wonder. The reedy playing of minor-key violins is the small towns’ music, with no lights but many shadows. Oh the vast swelling loneliness of them. The secret damp ravines of them. Life is a horror lived in them at night, when at all sides sanity, marriage, children, happiness, are threatened by an ogre called Death.

Mother raises her voice into the dark.

‘Skip! Skipper!’ she calls. ‘Skip! Skipper!’

Suddenly, both of you realize there is something wrong. Something very wrong. You listen intently and realize what it is.

The crickets have stopped chirping.

Silence is complete.

Never in your life a silence like this one. One so utterly complete. Why should the crickets cease? Why? What reason? They have never stopped ever before. Not ever.

Unless, Unless-

Something is going to happen.

It is as if the whole ravine is tensing, bunching together its black fibers, drawing in power from all about sleeping countrysides, for miles and miles. From dew-sodden forests and dells and rolling hills where dogs tilt heads to moons, from all around the great silence is sucked into one center, and you at the core of it. In ten seconds now, something will happen, something will happen. The crickets keep their truce, the stars are so low you can almost brush the tinsel. There are swarms of them, hot and sharp.

Growing, growing, the silence. Growing, growing, the tenseness. Oh it’s so dark, so far away from everything. Oh God!

And then, way way off across the ravine:

‘Okay, Mom! Coming, Mother!’

‘Hi, Mom! Coming, Mom!’

And then the quick scuttering of tennis shoes padding down through the pit of the ravine as three kids come dashing, giggling. Your brother Skipper, Chuck Redman, and Augie Bartz. Running, giggling.

The stars suck up like the stung antennae of ten million snails.

The crickets sing!

The darkness pulls back, startled, shocked, angry. Pulls back, losing its appetite at being so rudely interrupted as it prepared to feed. As the dark retreats like a wave on a shore, three kids pile out of it, laughing.

‘Hi, Mom! Hi, Shorts! Hey!’

It smells like Skipper all right. Sweat and grass and his oiled leather baseball glove.

‘Young man, you’re going to get a licking,’,declares Mother. She puts away her fear instantly. You know she will never tell anybody of it, ever. It will be in her heart though, for all time, as it is in your heart, for all time.

You walk home to bed in the late summer night. You are glad Skipper is alive. Very glad. For a moment there you thought-

Far off in the dim moonlit country, over a viaduct and down a valley, a train goes rushing along and it whistles like a lost metal thing, nameless and running. You go to bed, shivering, beside your brother, listening to that train whistle, and thinking of a cousin who lived way out in the country where that train is now; a cousin who died of pneumonia late at night years and years ago…You smell the sweat of Skip beside you. It is magic. You stop trembling. You hear footsteps outside the house on the sidewalk, as Mother is turning out the lights. A man clears his throat in a way you recognize.

Mom says, ‘That’s your father.’

‘Here they come,’ said Cecy, lying there
flat in her bed.

‘Where are they?’ cried Timothy from the doorway.

‘Some of them are over Europe, some over Asia, some of them over the Islands, some over South America!’ said Cecy, her eyes closed, the lashes long, brown, and quivering.

Timothy came forward upon the bare plankings of the upstairs room. ‘Who are they?’

‘Uncle Einar and Uncle Fry, and there’s Cousin William, and I see Frulda and Helgar and Aunt Morgiana and Cousin Vivian, and I see Uncle Johann! They’re all coming fast!’

‘Are they up in the sky?’ cried Timothy, his little gray eyes flashing. Standing by the bed, he looked no more than his fourteen years. The wind blew outside, the house was dark and lit only by starlight.

‘They’re coming through the air and traveling along the ground, in many forms,’ said Cecy, in her sleeping. She did not move on the bed: she thought inward on herself and told what she saw. ‘I see a wolflike thing coming over a dark river-at the shallows-just above a waterfall, the starlight shining up his pelt. I see a brown oak leaf blowing far up in the sky. I see a small bat flying. I see many other things, running through the forest trees and slipping through the highest branches: and they’re all coming this way!’

‘Will they be here by tomorrow night?’ Timothy clutched the bedclothes. The spider on his lapel swung like a black pendulum, excitedly dancing. He leaned over his sister. ‘Will they all be here in time for the Homecoming?’

‘Yes, yes, Timothy, yes,’ sighed Cecy. She stiffened. ‘Ask no more of me. Go away now. Let me travel in the places I like best.’

‘Thanks, Cecy,’ he said. Out in the hall, he ran to his room. He hurriedly made his bed. He had just awakened a few minutes ago, at sunset, and as the first stars had risen, he had gone to let his excitement about the party run with Cecy. Now she slept so quietly there was not a sound. The spider hung on a silvery lasso about Timothy’s slender neck as he washed his face. ‘Just think. Spid, tomorrow night is Allhallows Eve!’

He lifted his face and looked into the mirror. His was the only mirror allowed in the house. It was his mother’s concession to his illness. Oh, if only he were not so afflicted! He opened his mouth, surveyed the poor, inadequate teeth nature had given him. No more than so many corn kernels-round, soft and pale in his jaws. Some of the high spirit died in him.

And an awareness of the hazards of runaway technology.

Early life

As a child, Bradbury loved such as (1925); the books of and , and the first magazine, Amazing Stories . Bradbury often told of an encounter with a magician, Mr. Electrico, in 1932 as a notable influence. Wreathed in static electricity, Mr. Electrico touched the young Bradbury on the nose and said, “Live forever!” The next day, Bradbury returned to the carnival to ask Mr. Electrico’s advice on a trick. After Mr. Electrico introduced him to the other performers in the carnival, he told Bradbury that he was a of his best friend who died in . Bradbury later wrote, “a few days later I began to write, full-time. I have written every single day of my life since that day.”

First short stories

Britannica Classic: Edgar Allan Poe"s “The Fall of the House of Usher” Science-fiction writer Ray Bradbury discussing Edgar Allan Poe"s “The Fall of the House of Usher” in an Encyclopædia Britannica Educational Corporation film, 1975. Bradbury compares the screenplay with the written work and discusses both the Gothic tradition and Poe"s influence on contemporary science fiction. Encyclopædia Britannica, Inc.

Bradbury’s family moved to Los Angeles in 1934. In 1937 Bradbury joined the Los Angeles Science Fiction League, where he received encouragement from young writers such as Henry Kuttner, Edmond Hamilton, and Leigh Brackett, who met weekly with him. Bradbury published his first , “Hollerbochen’s Dilemma” (1938), in the league’s “fanzine,” Imagination! He published his own fanzine, Futuria Fantasia , in 1939. That same year Bradbury traveled to the first World Science Fiction convention, in , where he met many of the genre’s editors. He made his first sale to a professional science fiction magazine in 1941, when his short story “Pendulum” (written with Henry Hasse) was published in Super Science Stories . Many of Bradbury’s earliest stories, with their elements of and horror, were published in Weird Tales . Most of these stories were collected in his first book of short stories, Dark Carnival (1947). Bradbury’s style, with its rich use of and , stood out from the more utilitarian work that dominated pulp magazine writing.

In the mid-1940s Bradbury’s stories started to appear in major such as The American Mercury , and McCall’s , and he was unusual in publishing both in pulp magazines such as Planet Stories and Thrilling Wonder Stories and “slicks” (so-called because of their high-quality paper) such as and Collier’s without leaving behind the genres he loved. The Martian Chronicles (1950), a series of short stories, depicts colonization of , which leads to the extinction of an idyllic Martian civilization. However, in the face of an oncoming nuclear war, many of the settlers return to Earth, and after Earth’s destruction, a few surviving humans return to Mars to become the new Martians. The short-story collection The Illustrated Man (1951) included one of his most famous stories, “The Veldt,” in which a mother and father are concerned about the effect their house’s simulation of on the African is having on their children.

Fahrenheit 451 , Dandelion Wine , and scripts

Bradbury’s next , (1953), is regarded as his greatest work. In a future society where books are forbidden, Guy Montag, a “fireman” whose job is the burning of books, takes a book and is seduced by reading. Fahrenheit 451 has been acclaimed for its anti- themes and its defense of against the encroachment of electronic media. An acclaimed was released in 1966.

The collection The Golden Apples of the Sun (1953) contained “The Fog Horn” (loosely adapted for film as The Beast from 20,000 Fathoms ), about two keepers’ terrifying encounter with a sea monster; the title story, about a dangerous journey to scoop up a piece of the ; and “A Sound of Thunder,” about a safari back to the to hunt a . In 1954 Bradbury spent six months in Ireland with director working on the screenplay for the film Moby Dick (1956), an experience Bradbury later fictionalized in his novel Green Shadows, White Whale (1992). After the release of Moby Dick , Bradbury was in demand as a screenwriter in Hollywood and wrote scripts for Playhouse 90 , Alfred Hitchcock Presents , and The Twilight Zone .

One of Bradbury’s most personal works, Dandelion Wine (1957), is an autobiographical novel about a magical but too brief summer of a 12-year-old boy in Green Town, Illinois (a fictionalized version of his childhood home of Waukegan). His next collection, A Medicine for Melancholy (1959), contained “All Summer in a Day,” a poignant story of childhood cruelty on , where the Sun comes out only every seven years. The Midwest of his childhood was once again the setting of Something Wicked This Way Comes (1962), in which a carnival comes to town run by the mysterious and evil Mr. Dark. The next year, he published his first collection of short plays, The Anthem Sprinters and Other Antics .

Later work and awards

In the 1970s Bradbury no longer wrote short fiction at his previous pace, turning his energy to and . Earlier in his career he had sold several short stories, and he returned to the genre with Death Is a Lonely Business (1985), an homage to the detective stories of writers such as