Ray Bradbury's The October Country
Anyone who has been reading this blog and following me for a while knows about my love of Ray Bradbury.
The majority of the pieces Tor.com has published by me have been Bradbury-centric, either directly about his work or on works written by other authors, namely Sam Weller, about him. Thus, it would be remiss of me, in this month of all months, not to write a post (or two), about one of the most significant authors in my life.
Early in his career, Bradbury's main output consisted of short stories, the form I believe in which he did his best work and excelled the most. However, the stories he wrote largely in that time period (roughly through the late 1930s and the 40s), it may surprise you to hear, were not science fiction stories. Most, in fact, were dark fantasy, horror, crime, and gothic stories, with no presence of speculation about the future or technology anywhere within them.
In the earliest parts of every career, writers tend to imitate their heroes, consciously or unconsciously, because it was their heroes who taught them, indirectly through reading, how to tell stories. In Bradbury's case, several of those early heroes included H.P. Lovecraft, Edgar Allen Poe, and L. Frank Baum, none of whom readers would describe as Science Fiction writers. Poe and Lovecraft wrote horror and gothic stories (though some of Lovecraft's later work mixed in elements of science fiction), and Baum of course wrote the Oz fantasy books.
Nearly all of these early stories are still available for readers to enjoy in one of Bradbury's earliest short story collections, The October Country.
The collection itself has an interesting publishing history. A large portion of its contents were originally published in Bradbury's first ever published book, Dark Carnival. Sam Weller, Bradbury's authorized biographer, wrote an excellent piece about how Bradbury's first book was basically reincarnated later in his career, with some stories dropped, some simply revised, and other added to created a volume that Bradbury believed better reflected who he was as a writer at that point. The book was rechristened The October Country.
Many of Bradbury's best-known non-SF stories appear in this volume, and the book as a whole proved that Bradbury was not just a writer of Science Fiction (as indeed can be said of almost all the writers of his generation). This week, I decided to take the time to talk about just five stories in this book that make it worth reading all of which illustrate how wide Bradbury's range as an author could be.
"The Lake"
Time and again, when Bradbury recollected his early attempts at writing, he always pointed to the time in his life when his writing at last started to get good. He began writing at 12, and he said he was 22 when he first wrote his first decent short story.
And that story was "The Lake."
Told in the voice of a narrator across time, "The Lake" is an unconventional ghost-story that deals with the effects of time's passage on us as people. It talks of how trauma experienced in childhood lingers on in our minds and how that effects us, no matter how old we grow. Most of all though, it deals with one of the most central themes of literature: death.
As our narrator returns to the scene of his childhood where he first encountered death, in the form of the drowning and disappearance of a childhood playmate, he comes to understand just how that experience affected him as a person and how it will effect him going forward as he comes to terms with it.
It was the first story in which Bradbury believed he'd found his own voice, his own perspective, and thus it marked the start of a big change in how he would tell his tales going forward. This first effort though remains as beautiful an example of youthful Bradbury as ever.
"The Small Assassin"
As I mentioned earlier, one of Bradbury's early influences was Edgar Allen Poe. One of the emotions Poe, probably better than any other writer before or since, managed to capture in prose the the feeling of obsession, particularly passionate, paranoid, and unhealthy obsession. Bradbury's own story, "The Small Assassin," however, makes a decent effort to play in that same territory.
The eponymous character of the story is not a "little person," (although, there could be a debate that horror film series like Leprechaun and Chucky might not exist without this story). The character in question is actually...(wait for it)...a baby.
The story recounts how a newly blessed father and mother slowly come to believe that their newborn, is in fact, out to kill them.
Now, it's my understanding that some parents--I have no kids, so I can't say--firmly believe that their children, particularly when they're young, have it in for them. I think this is a perfectly natural thought (kids are here to replace us after all), given that children run parents ragged, either with their demands, their questions, or with worry. Bradbury's story, however, takes this otherwise hilarious metaphor and makes it literal.
Each parents, first the mother and then the father, comes to believe that their child is out to kill them. And after a series of accidents, the thought becomes all consuming.
If you want a story that can send a chill up your spine each time you walk past a stroller, this is the one.
"Uncle Einar"
This story is closely related to another time (which I will discuss next), for it features a character who appears in a number of other Bradbury stories. Einar is one of the Elliotf family, a massive brood of monsters, each one of whom possesses a "talent,' a trait that allows them to stand out among their unique clan. In his case, Einar's talent is his pair of sea-green, bat-like wings that enable him to fly with the birds.
Like a bat, Einar mainly flew a night (if only to keep people from gawking at him), until one night he had an accident. he crashed into a high-voltage tower that sent him crashing to the ground, like a bird with a shattered wing. His story is about what followed after that night.
"Uncle Einar," in the end, is a kind of unconventional love story. Einar's nurse, the woman who helped him recover from his crash, keeps finding small ways to keep him around once he's recovered, and Einar himself, though he's gruff to begin with, begins to soften and warm to the idea of no longer being the solo flyer he's been much of his life. In it's own way, it's Bradbury at his most touching, as he spins a tale about how chance and seemingly ill fortune can sometimes introduce a new, positive possibility.
"Homecoming"
When I wrote my piece for Tor.com titled, "Four Places to Begin with the Works of Ray Bradbury," I singled out one short story that I believed was one of his best. It was the other, and probably more famous Elliott story, "Homecoming."
"Homecoming," is a classic black sheep story. Told from the perspective of Timothy Elliott, the one "normal member" (by human standards) of the Elliott family tree, it tells the story of a family reunion, a sometimes awkward social occasion for any attendee. For Timothy, though, the awkwardness is intensified. As the one member of the family lacking a "talent," he only wants one thing: to belong. He wants a talent to manifest so he is no longer the black sheep.
But sometimes, things don't work out, and in this story, Bradbury puts that truth of life on full display. The closing passages are some of the most heart-wrenching material I've ever read because of how easy it is to recognize one's self in Timothy's struggle. We've all experienced a moment--maybe longer than time--in our lives where all we wanted was to not stand out, was to belong. Sometimes, we find a way to do so, and sometimes we don't. Just for that emotional honesty, this story is worth a read and several rereads after that.
"The Scythe"
Only recently did I discover (again, thanks to Sam Weller), that this story had an interesting beginning--no pun intended.
The beginning of this story, apparently, was written by another writer. As a teenager and twenty-something, Bradbury met the writer Leigh Brackett, with whom had a close, loving friendship through to the end of her life. She was one of his greatest early mentors, who gave him many good pointers about the craft of writing. One of her ways to teaching was that she would write the beginning of a story for Bradbury, and he would then finish it. So the first paragraph or so of "The Scythe," and thus this great story, came into being because of her.
"The Scythe," is one of my favorite Bradbury stories.
To a modern reader like me, it reads almost like a fantasy period-piece. To someone of Bradbury's generation though, "The Scythe," was contemporary dark fantasy. Set during the Great Depression, it follows Drew Erickson and his family as they reach the end of their journey to escape their losses of the Depression. Their luck seems to change when they come across an old farm house, set up with a well stocked kitchen, and devoid of any living occupants. Their only surprise is finding the titular object, with the words etched into its steel blade: WHO WIELDS ME--WIELDS HE WORLD! Only as time passes does Drew realize that, by taking the Scythe in hand, he has become the one thing all living things fear.
The subtly with which Bradbury works up to the big revelation still amazes me, as does the horrible things he does to their characters who have already suffered so much. Yet the beauty in this story's execution outweighs all of that.
The October Country remains in print to this day and is available as an eBook. It's one of the member's of Bradbury's bibliography that completely shatters the imagine most have of him as just a "science fiction writer." he was far more than than, and the stories of this collection--especially the few I've discussed here--prove that more than anything I say can. If you haven't read it, give it read. You might just find your next favorite story between its covers.
The majority of the pieces Tor.com has published by me have been Bradbury-centric, either directly about his work or on works written by other authors, namely Sam Weller, about him. Thus, it would be remiss of me, in this month of all months, not to write a post (or two), about one of the most significant authors in my life.
Early in his career, Bradbury's main output consisted of short stories, the form I believe in which he did his best work and excelled the most. However, the stories he wrote largely in that time period (roughly through the late 1930s and the 40s), it may surprise you to hear, were not science fiction stories. Most, in fact, were dark fantasy, horror, crime, and gothic stories, with no presence of speculation about the future or technology anywhere within them.
In the earliest parts of every career, writers tend to imitate their heroes, consciously or unconsciously, because it was their heroes who taught them, indirectly through reading, how to tell stories. In Bradbury's case, several of those early heroes included H.P. Lovecraft, Edgar Allen Poe, and L. Frank Baum, none of whom readers would describe as Science Fiction writers. Poe and Lovecraft wrote horror and gothic stories (though some of Lovecraft's later work mixed in elements of science fiction), and Baum of course wrote the Oz fantasy books.Nearly all of these early stories are still available for readers to enjoy in one of Bradbury's earliest short story collections, The October Country.
The collection itself has an interesting publishing history. A large portion of its contents were originally published in Bradbury's first ever published book, Dark Carnival. Sam Weller, Bradbury's authorized biographer, wrote an excellent piece about how Bradbury's first book was basically reincarnated later in his career, with some stories dropped, some simply revised, and other added to created a volume that Bradbury believed better reflected who he was as a writer at that point. The book was rechristened The October Country.
Many of Bradbury's best-known non-SF stories appear in this volume, and the book as a whole proved that Bradbury was not just a writer of Science Fiction (as indeed can be said of almost all the writers of his generation). This week, I decided to take the time to talk about just five stories in this book that make it worth reading all of which illustrate how wide Bradbury's range as an author could be.
"The Lake"
Time and again, when Bradbury recollected his early attempts at writing, he always pointed to the time in his life when his writing at last started to get good. He began writing at 12, and he said he was 22 when he first wrote his first decent short story.
And that story was "The Lake."
Told in the voice of a narrator across time, "The Lake" is an unconventional ghost-story that deals with the effects of time's passage on us as people. It talks of how trauma experienced in childhood lingers on in our minds and how that effects us, no matter how old we grow. Most of all though, it deals with one of the most central themes of literature: death.
As our narrator returns to the scene of his childhood where he first encountered death, in the form of the drowning and disappearance of a childhood playmate, he comes to understand just how that experience affected him as a person and how it will effect him going forward as he comes to terms with it.
It was the first story in which Bradbury believed he'd found his own voice, his own perspective, and thus it marked the start of a big change in how he would tell his tales going forward. This first effort though remains as beautiful an example of youthful Bradbury as ever.
"The Small Assassin"
As I mentioned earlier, one of Bradbury's early influences was Edgar Allen Poe. One of the emotions Poe, probably better than any other writer before or since, managed to capture in prose the the feeling of obsession, particularly passionate, paranoid, and unhealthy obsession. Bradbury's own story, "The Small Assassin," however, makes a decent effort to play in that same territory.
The eponymous character of the story is not a "little person," (although, there could be a debate that horror film series like Leprechaun and Chucky might not exist without this story). The character in question is actually...(wait for it)...a baby.
The story recounts how a newly blessed father and mother slowly come to believe that their newborn, is in fact, out to kill them.
Now, it's my understanding that some parents--I have no kids, so I can't say--firmly believe that their children, particularly when they're young, have it in for them. I think this is a perfectly natural thought (kids are here to replace us after all), given that children run parents ragged, either with their demands, their questions, or with worry. Bradbury's story, however, takes this otherwise hilarious metaphor and makes it literal.
Each parents, first the mother and then the father, comes to believe that their child is out to kill them. And after a series of accidents, the thought becomes all consuming.
If you want a story that can send a chill up your spine each time you walk past a stroller, this is the one.
"Uncle Einar"
This story is closely related to another time (which I will discuss next), for it features a character who appears in a number of other Bradbury stories. Einar is one of the Elliotf family, a massive brood of monsters, each one of whom possesses a "talent,' a trait that allows them to stand out among their unique clan. In his case, Einar's talent is his pair of sea-green, bat-like wings that enable him to fly with the birds.
Like a bat, Einar mainly flew a night (if only to keep people from gawking at him), until one night he had an accident. he crashed into a high-voltage tower that sent him crashing to the ground, like a bird with a shattered wing. His story is about what followed after that night.
"Uncle Einar," in the end, is a kind of unconventional love story. Einar's nurse, the woman who helped him recover from his crash, keeps finding small ways to keep him around once he's recovered, and Einar himself, though he's gruff to begin with, begins to soften and warm to the idea of no longer being the solo flyer he's been much of his life. In it's own way, it's Bradbury at his most touching, as he spins a tale about how chance and seemingly ill fortune can sometimes introduce a new, positive possibility.
"Homecoming"
When I wrote my piece for Tor.com titled, "Four Places to Begin with the Works of Ray Bradbury," I singled out one short story that I believed was one of his best. It was the other, and probably more famous Elliott story, "Homecoming."
"Homecoming," is a classic black sheep story. Told from the perspective of Timothy Elliott, the one "normal member" (by human standards) of the Elliott family tree, it tells the story of a family reunion, a sometimes awkward social occasion for any attendee. For Timothy, though, the awkwardness is intensified. As the one member of the family lacking a "talent," he only wants one thing: to belong. He wants a talent to manifest so he is no longer the black sheep.
But sometimes, things don't work out, and in this story, Bradbury puts that truth of life on full display. The closing passages are some of the most heart-wrenching material I've ever read because of how easy it is to recognize one's self in Timothy's struggle. We've all experienced a moment--maybe longer than time--in our lives where all we wanted was to not stand out, was to belong. Sometimes, we find a way to do so, and sometimes we don't. Just for that emotional honesty, this story is worth a read and several rereads after that.
"The Scythe"
Only recently did I discover (again, thanks to Sam Weller), that this story had an interesting beginning--no pun intended.
The beginning of this story, apparently, was written by another writer. As a teenager and twenty-something, Bradbury met the writer Leigh Brackett, with whom had a close, loving friendship through to the end of her life. She was one of his greatest early mentors, who gave him many good pointers about the craft of writing. One of her ways to teaching was that she would write the beginning of a story for Bradbury, and he would then finish it. So the first paragraph or so of "The Scythe," and thus this great story, came into being because of her.
"The Scythe," is one of my favorite Bradbury stories.
To a modern reader like me, it reads almost like a fantasy period-piece. To someone of Bradbury's generation though, "The Scythe," was contemporary dark fantasy. Set during the Great Depression, it follows Drew Erickson and his family as they reach the end of their journey to escape their losses of the Depression. Their luck seems to change when they come across an old farm house, set up with a well stocked kitchen, and devoid of any living occupants. Their only surprise is finding the titular object, with the words etched into its steel blade: WHO WIELDS ME--WIELDS HE WORLD! Only as time passes does Drew realize that, by taking the Scythe in hand, he has become the one thing all living things fear.
The subtly with which Bradbury works up to the big revelation still amazes me, as does the horrible things he does to their characters who have already suffered so much. Yet the beauty in this story's execution outweighs all of that.
The October Country remains in print to this day and is available as an eBook. It's one of the member's of Bradbury's bibliography that completely shatters the imagine most have of him as just a "science fiction writer." he was far more than than, and the stories of this collection--especially the few I've discussed here--prove that more than anything I say can. If you haven't read it, give it read. You might just find your next favorite story between its covers.
