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Post by Phalon on Nov 14, 2010 9:06:23 GMT -6
All these pages here, and there's not a thread discussing the literary classics, so I thought I'd start one. If there already is one, I missed it, and sorry for the duplication.
LX is studying Edgar Allan Poe in English, an author who I really like. They've already studied "The Raven"; on tap are "The Pit and the Pendulum", "The Tell-Tale Heart", "The Cask of Amontillado", "Masque of the Red Death", "The Fall of the House of Usher", "The Murders in the Rue Morgue", "The Black Cat", and this weekend's assignment "Annabel Lee".
I've never read "Annabel Lee", the last of Poe's poems before his death. Following the theme of many of his works, it's about the love and death of a woman. In this one, love transcends death. LX's assignment reduced it to couplets, assonances, internal rhymes, and alliteration, but I think it's a mournfully beautiful poem.
Annabel Lee
It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of ANNABEL LEE; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea; But we loved with a love that was more than love- I and my Annabel Lee; With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee; So that her highborn kinsman came And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven, Went envying her and me- Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we- Of many far wiser than we- And neither the angels in heaven above, Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride, In the sepulchre there by the sea, In her tomb by the sounding sea.
~ Edgar Allan Poe
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Post by Scrappy Amazon on Nov 14, 2010 13:04:22 GMT -6
I adore Poe. My first encounter with Poe was in Jr. High. Our English teacher made us go to the library every friday to pick out a book to read. This particular friday I didn't want to read. So I went to the multi media area (a couple of desks with record players, micro film readers, and earphones the size of the ones used on gun ranges) I started going through the records they had. One of them caught my eye immediately. It was all black and white with a picture of a raven and a half picture of Vincent Price. On the front it said Side A Vincent Price reading The Raven, Side B Vincent Price reading Tell Tale Heart. I knew who Vincent Price was and loved all the old cheesy creepy movies, so I slapped it on the record player and listened to the Tell Tale Heart.
I swear it was the scariest thing I'd ever heard. Complete with beating heart sound effects and Vincent Price's iconic voice......I still get chills. Wish I could find a modern copy today.
I had never read that poem before, thanks for posting it. However, it's pretty much like all his stuff. Creepy and death oriented. Doesn't that make you wonder what kind of brain the guy had? Constantly depressed is wht I'm thinking.
BTW......what did you think of "The Yellow Wallpaper"?
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Post by Mini Mia on Nov 14, 2010 18:52:40 GMT -6
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Post by Phalon on Nov 17, 2010 5:33:58 GMT -6
Oh, shoot! For a minute, I thought I had ya covered there, Poppet. Although Joxie provided the YouTube links, I was thinking I could provide you with your very own CD - a copy from my Smithsonian Legendary Performers boxed CD collection of Poe. Yep, 6 hours of creepiness from 12 unedited original radio shows. I remember listening to The Telltale Heart - and remember the creepy heartbeats. But when I checked, my CD was done by Boris Karloff, not Vincent Prince.
It does have a similar theme: woman dies, guy (the narrator) mourns, and can't get on with his life. Poe once said that type of theme is the "most poetical topic in the world". This poem seems to me to be more sad than creepy though. Some theories claim it's Poe's wife in the poem - he never really got over her death, and suffered a deep depression for a long time afterward. Others say Poe got the inspiration for "Annabel Lee" from a local legend about a sailor and a girl named Annabel Lee. The girl's father disapproved of the relationship, so they'd sneak off to a graveyard to meet. When the sailor was called back to duty, Annabel Lee died of yellow fever while he was away. Upon his return to land, he kept vigil in the graveyard where they used to secretly meet, waiting for his lover to return. Now that's creepy!!!
Kind of an interesting bit of information that I didn't know when I posted about the mystery of Poe's death in the 31 Days of Halloween thing. New evidence suggests he had a huge brain tumor. Most of the theory stems from the fact that when his body was exhumed so it could be moved to a different location years after he died, his brain was still intact, rattling around in his skull. (Fittingly creepy, yes?) Sounds improbable; the brain is one of the first things to rot. But numerous accounts verify Poe's brain was still there. The brain may be the first thing to go, (it seems like mine's already started the decaying process), but brain tumors calcify, and rattle around forever.
Dang, I'm learning so much from 10th grade Honors English. HA! Shows I still have a high school mentality, I suppose.
I'd have to read it again to get more out of it, but LX had to turn it back in, so I haven't had a chance. It was....disturbing is the best word I can come up with. The final scene with her tethered with a rope tied to the bed so she wouldn't get sucked into the wallpaper, but still creeping around the room even over her passed out husband, is an image that sticks with a person.
Even more disturbing is that the author wrote the story based on personal experiences she suffered during a period of deep depression. More disturbing still is that's how patients with mental problems were treated during the 1800s! In excerpts of an author interview, she said that a doctor contacted her after reading "The Yellow Wallpaper", saying her story changed forever the way he would conduct his treatment of mental patients. That, the author said, made her reliving her own painful experience worthwhile.
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Post by Mini Mia on Nov 17, 2010 17:38:44 GMT -6
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Post by Phalon on Nov 17, 2010 22:57:06 GMT -6
Tonight was "The Fall of the House of Usher"...or rather, the last half of it; the first half the class read in school today, with the teacher explaining what was read. I had to do the same; LX had a hard time getting through this one. I had a hard time reading it aloud (a much easier story to read to oneself, I would think), stumbling over words throughout. Thank god for textbook footnotes which explained words no longer in common usuage. It would have taken us twice as long to get through it if I had to stop, and have LX look up an unknown word in the dictionary each time. "Dictionaries - who uses an actual dictionary anymore." (eye-roll) "I do - it's my favorite book." "Sheesh, Mom..." (another eye-roll) "...I hope you don't tell anybody that."
After I read each paragraph, I asked her to tell me what it meant. If I got a blank stare, I'd have to explain it in "plain English, please".
It's been forever since I read this story; I think it was in an American Lit class in the mid-eighties. I remembered the gist of the story, but not all the details. And now since we started midway through tonight, I'm going to have to steal her textbook for a day to reread the whole thing. Again - thank god for footnotes!
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Post by Mini Mia on Nov 18, 2010 2:10:21 GMT -6
Do a search for:
Edgar Allan Poe+The Fall of the House of Usher+Free Read
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Post by Scrappy Amazon on Nov 21, 2010 12:29:39 GMT -6
Thanks for the links Jox. I'm definately going to read this one tonight. I've seen the movie......I think. Here's my next suggestion....I'm really enjoying my reintroduction to the classics. It's been a while. The Metamorphosis
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Post by katina2nd on Nov 21, 2010 19:43:35 GMT -6
LX's assignment reduced it to couplets, assonances, internal rhymes, and alliteration, but I think it's a mournfully beautiful poem. Errrr, can I borrow that Dictionary of yours please Gams? Sheesh I think I'm outta my depth in here, unless Wilbur Smith or Richard Laymon qualify as classics .... how about Jeff Lindsay [ Dexter ] now surely he qualifies? Liked the Annabel Lee poem, "mournful" sums it up perfectly.
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Post by katina2nd on Nov 21, 2010 19:52:31 GMT -6
Copied "The Metamorphosis" onto a notepad and will have a crack at it later Scrapp' then give a deep and insightful summation of it. *cough*
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Post by Mini Mia on Nov 21, 2010 23:27:21 GMT -6
Thanks for the links Jox.
You're very welcome, Scrappy.
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Post by Phalon on Nov 23, 2010 9:01:33 GMT -6
Okay, Scrappy - I read “Metamorphosis” the other night. Just gotta say “eeewww” on the icky bug thing. But despite those clicking, flailing legs, and sticky brown bug juice, I liked the story. I thought the “metamorphosis” occurred in a few different instances in the story. Help me out here, Scrappeletta.
I think the metamorphosis from man to bug was just a reflection of how others treated him – like a measly insect, not worthy of much attention. To his family, he’s just a means of support. His employers don’t really care about him, other than that he does the job he’s supposed to. Other than for the purpose of making money, all he is, really, is just there – like a bug on the wall that nobody pays attention to.
It’s apparent his family is selfish, only using him to support them financially after his father loses the business, and is unable physically to go back to work. They have servants; the father has money that he stashed away before his business failed. They have jewels, and live in an apartment too big for them. And obviously, they can work; they have to when their son changes into bug boy and can’t bring home the bacon anymore.
The man doesn’t seem to mind much that they use him; it’s just his lot in life to go about unnoticed and unappreciated until he is unable to do so – cuz he’s a bug. I think he under goes a second metamorphosis when, finally, after months of being a bug, he starts to get angry at the neglect his family shows him. He shoulda done the same during his life as a human, and then maybe he wouldn’t have had to spend his last days as an insect – a burden to his family, as they were to him in his human form. But while he didn’t mind taking care of them, they can’t stand the idea of doing the same for their son, the bug.
Interesting is the appearance of the cleaning lady, who doesn’t seem appalled or even curious that there’s a giant bug hanging about in a room of its own. Perhaps because she’s a servant, she’s used to being treated in the same manner the man was before his buggy life?
The sister also has a metamorphosis. She goes from the one person who seems to truly care about the man – even after he first turns into Bug Bro – to being the one who seems the most disgusted by him, and shows him the most neglect since she’s the one who self-appointed herself to his caregiver. It’s quite the opposite as to how the brother treated her when he was her sole means of support.
After bug guy dies, it’s interesting the family realizes they didn’t need the man after-all (though it’s not put in those exact terms). They all have good jobs, and their future looks bright. It further shows that the man was used during the time he supported them - just a measly insect that had a purpose for a time, but not one that was totally necessary. What I don’t get (maybe I don’t get any of it), is how the parents view their daughter at the end of the story. During all this, she’s transformed into a beautiful young woman, who they decide though glances to each other and unconscious understanding, that it’s time to marry her off to a “good, honest man”. Is this so she can become “Mrs. Bug”, and husband and her support them just as bug boy did?
It’s an interesting thought: what qualifies as a classic? So I drilled, of course…
The characteristics of a classic are that it stands the test of time because it has a universal theme that everyone can relate to, even those from different cultures. It’s a piece of writing that stays in print, or it may go out of print, but always seems to come back in again; they are stories that people continue to talk about long after they’ve were written. Mark Twain defined a classic as “something that everybody wants to have read and nobody wants to read.”
Chris Clark, a writer from the UK who blogs about books, says there are actually two kinds of classic books: “The first are those we know we should have read, but probably have not. These are generally the books that make us burn with shame when they come up in conversation…The second kind, meanwhile, are those books that we've read five times, can quote from on any occasion, and annoyingly push on to other people with the words: "You have to read this. It's a classic."
So, Katina, if you are going to push Smith or Laymon off on us, insisting we have to read them bcause they're classics, then I suppose they’re classics....even if we don't want to read them, but feel we should. Or something like that.
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Post by katina2nd on Nov 24, 2010 23:24:03 GMT -6
Great review Gams, almost precisely what I was going to say myself [ scary how alike our minds work, well scary for you at least ] Alright I can't tell a lie, I haven't actually read it yet. It is a perplexing question as to what constitutes a "classic" novel, or classic film for that matter. Longevity, being able to stand the test of time seems to be a common view, possibly "the" most important indicator, but doesn't that automatically disqualify any novel written or film made today, no matter how excellent they may be, was "To Kill A Mockingbird" for example, an instant classic or did it have to wait decades for that accolade? The works of James Fenimore Cooper are generally considered classics, they certainly fulfill the criteria from your drill, universal themes, continuously in print etc. yet I've seen his writing described as very average, also many of the films now considered classics were poorly received both publicly and critically at the time of their release, so how big a part does the actual quality of a novel/film play or do they just gain status simply with the passage of time??
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Post by katina2nd on Nov 24, 2010 23:31:45 GMT -6
The second kind, meanwhile, are those books that we've read five times, can quote from on any occasion, and annoyingly push on to other people with the words: "You have to read this. It's a classic." So, Katina, if you are going to push Smith or Laymon off on us, insisting we have to read them bcause they're classics, Hey, you called me annoying .......... I'm, I'm ...... shattered, upset, offended, crushed, lost for words ....................... I certainly wouldn't push Richard Laymon off onto anybody by the way, the quality of his writing is ................. well let's just say it lacks quality, yet I've read most of his books, so what does that say about me?
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Post by Phalon on Nov 26, 2010 9:28:06 GMT -6
Interesting points, Katina...especially that part where you said I should be afraid; I would think it would be the other way around. You're a brave man, Katina....a very brave man.
But really...I think this is an interesting conversation. Can there be such a thing as an "instant classic"; it's a term that's used often. Or are instant classics more pop culture until a certain amount of time passes, and if still popular, they are moved into the "classic" category? Or are they just oxymorons?
I had to drill Richard Laymon; I haven't read any of his books, which given your description about the quality of his writing, says absolutely nothing about me! I've never received an invitation to the culture club, though maybe it got lost in the mail.
Writing of poor quality, but popular, would be considered pulp fiction, yes? From my Laymon drill, it certainly looks like he's written a boatload of stories, and if they're of poor quality, is he a classic pulp fiction writer? Or is he popular with just a particular group of readers, and the stories are considered cult classics. This is the horror writer Richard Laymon, yes? If so, the bio I read about him notes that he received a number of awards in the horror story genre and accolades from Stephen King and Dean Koontz. Maybe what is considered a classic is just a matter of taste. You like Vegemite after-all, so that explains everything.
Pulp Fiction, btw, is one of my favorite movies. It was an instant classic.
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Post by katina2nd on Nov 28, 2010 20:21:55 GMT -6
Yep, that's the one, Richard Laymon the horror writer, or writer of "cheesy fun" as I've seen him described. The definition of classic is indeed interesting, just wish I was a bit more certain of where I stand on the issue. If the test of time is the primary necessity of determining a classic then no, there can be no such thing as an "instant" classic [ Pulp Fiction notwithstanding ] I'm not entirely convinced though, if a work [ novel/film/painting ] has obvious and universally acclaimed quality should it have to wait decades to be called a classic, for instance, if Michelangelo produced his sculpture of David today wouldn't it be instantly recognised as a masterpiece, or a "classic" in it's field? [ does art qualify for the term classic? ] One of the many definitions of classic simply states "a creation of the highest excellence" without any reference to time, although of course it's often described as a work of "enduring" quality as well, so I guess that clears that up. Ummm, this is a bit weighty for moi, think I'll make myself a Vegemite sanger, drag out "Beast House" by Laymon and immerse myself in some c ..... errrr cheesy fun writing. ;D
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Post by Mini Mia on Nov 30, 2010 18:37:10 GMT -6
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Post by Phalon on Dec 1, 2010 8:04:50 GMT -6
I not sure it's weighty, Katina, or even very deep. It's more murky waters, I think, and ouch! something just bit me.
Now move over and share your couch space; I promise I won't touch your Vegemite sanger (with a 10 foot pole), but I do love cheese!
Thanks for the links, Joxie....makes me want to read Northanger Abbey again. But noooo! I promised myself I'd get through the books I have at home first before going out and getting another....which is why I ordered two more from the inter-library loan the other day, (eye-roll).
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Post by Mini Mia on Dec 1, 2010 17:28:39 GMT -6
I thought perhaps you might like lurking in on the thread conversations about the book. (If you decide to join and post, they are very strict about staying on topic. I'm so used to here that I've gotten scolded a couple of times.)
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Post by Phalon on Dec 2, 2010 11:34:41 GMT -6
I'd probably be banned within a day.
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Post by Mini Mia on Dec 2, 2010 17:49:54 GMT -6
As I said:
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Post by Scrappy Amazon on Dec 5, 2010 2:36:13 GMT -6
Help me out here, Scrappeletta. Awsome assesment Madam P. I know I told you I had to read the story a few times the first time because I thought the whole cockroach thing was a metaphore at first. But after refelction the description of the walking on the ceiling and the rotting apple and the "scurrying" was all to realistic to be anything other than what it was. One more question....do you have any more thoughts on the use3 of a cockroach.....as part of the natural world it has its purpose too no? To clean up the crap of the world..... Cool.....your turn what's next?
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Post by Phalon on Dec 5, 2010 7:43:08 GMT -6
Oooo, good one, Poppet! A cockroach as one of nature's custodians! "Custodian", the word, has a couple of different meanings, doesn't it. One - a lowly janitor; a cleaning man whose job is considered menial by many. And secondly, "custodian" is also a caregiver. It's perfect! I wonder if you remember that short story I wrote earlier this year, titled "The Custodian"? I think that was one of my favorites - the theme was along the same lines, and it had plenty of cheese. Hhmmmm.....here's one that LX read last year in English. Ever read "Country of the Blind" by H.G. Wells? www.online-literature.com/wellshg/3/
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Post by Phalon on Feb 14, 2011 22:21:38 GMT -6
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Post by Scrappy Amazon on Feb 16, 2011 23:29:01 GMT -6
I can't tell you how many times a day I think exactly the same things that Twain so eloquently puts to paper. The stuff going on in Egypt is a prime example. Our congresswoman getting shot a month or so ago is another. No race or creed or species of animal would ever behave that way.
I wrote a paper on this subject in college......think I'll see if I can find it.
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Post by Phalon on May 5, 2017 4:23:45 GMT -6
I was just telling Scrappy the other day that I wasn't much into science fiction, and I always tell LX's boyfriend, a huge sci-fi fan, the same, so I thought it might be time to break down and read one of the classics....or at least something by a classic science fiction author. I drilled Ray Bradbury short stories, and came across a very short piece that was recommended as a 'starter': There Will Come Soft Rains. www.gs.cidsnet.de/englisch-online/originals/soft_rains.htm
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Post by Scrappy Amazon on May 5, 2017 8:41:29 GMT -6
I LOVE THAT!!! Thanks for sharing!
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Post by Scrappy Amazon on May 5, 2017 8:46:18 GMT -6
I found it!
All Summer in a Day By Ray Bradbury "Ready ?" "Ready." "Now ?" "Soon." "Do the scientists really know? Will it happen today, will it ?" "Look, look; see for yourself !" The children pressed to each other like so many roses, so many weeds, intermixed, peering out for a look at the hidden sun. It rained. It had been raining for seven years; thousands upon thousands of days compounded and filled from one end to the other with rain, with the drum and gush of water, with the sweet crystal fall of showers and the concussion of storms so heavy they were tidal waves come over the islands. A thousand forests had been crushed under the rain and grown up a thousand times to be crushed again. And this was the way life was forever on the planet Venus, and this was the schoolroom of the children of the rocket men and women who had come to a raining world to set up civilization and live out their lives. "It’s stopping, it’s stopping !" "Yes, yes !" Margot stood apart from them, from these children who could ever remember a time when there wasn’t rain and rain and rain. They were all nine years old, and if there had been a day, seven years ago, when the sun came out for an hour and showed its face to the stunned world, they could not recall. Sometimes, at night, she heard them stir, in remembrance, and she knew they were dreaming and remembering gold or a yellow crayon or a coin large enough to buy the world with. She knew they thought they remembered a warmness, like a blushing in the face, in the body, in the arms and legs and trembling hands. But then they always awoke to the tatting drum, the endless shaking down of clear bead necklaces upon the roof, the walk, the gardens, the forests, and their dreams were gone. All day yesterday they had read in class about the sun. About how like a lemon it was, and how hot. And they had written small stories or essays or poems about it:I think the sun is a flower,That blooms for just one hour. That was Margot’s poem, read in a quiet voice in the still classroom while the rain was falling outside. "Aw, you didn’t write that!" protested one of the boys. "I did," said Margot. "I did." "William!" said the teacher. But that was yesterday. Now the rain was slackening, and the children were crushed in the great thick windows. Where’s teacher ?" "She’ll be back." "She’d better hurry, we’ll miss it !" They turned on themselves, like a feverish wheel, all tumbling spokes. Margot stood alone. She was a very frail girl who looked as if she had been lost in the rain for years and the rain had washed out the blue from her eyes and the red from her mouth and the yellow from her hair. She was an old photograph dusted from an album, whitened away, and if she spoke at all her voice would be a ghost. Now she stood, separate, staring at the rain and the loud wet world beyond the huge glass. "What’re you looking at ?" said William. Margot said nothing. "Speak when you’re spoken to." He gave her a shove. But she did not move; rather she let herself be moved only by him and nothing else. They edged away from her, they would not look at her. She felt them go away. And this was because she would play no games with them in the echoing tunnels of the underground city. If they tagged her and ran, she stood blinking after them and did not follow. When the class sang songs about happiness and life and games her lips barely moved. Only when they sang about the sun and the summer did her lips move as she watched the drenched windows. And then, of course, the biggest crime of all was that she had come here only five years ago from Earth, and she remembered the sun and the way the sun was and the sky was when she was four in Ohio. And they, they had been on Venus all their lives, and they had been only two years old when last the sun came out and had long since forgotten the color and heat of it and the way it really was. But Margot remembered. "It’s like a penny," she said once, eyes closed. "No it’s not!" the children cried. "It’s like a fire," she said, "in the stove." "You’re lying, you don’t remember !" cried the children. But she remembered and stood quietly apart from all of them and watched the patterning windows. And once, a month ago, she had refused to shower in the school shower rooms, had clutched her hands to her ears and over her head, screaming the water mustn’t touch her head. So after that, dimly, dimly, she sensed it, she was different and they knew her difference and kept away. There was talk that her father and mother were taking her back to Earth next year; it seemed vital to her that they do so, though it would mean the loss of thousands of dollars to her family. And so, the children hated her for all these reasons of big and little consequence. They hated her pale snow face, her waiting silence, her thinness, and her possible future. "Get away !" The boy gave her another push. "What’re you waiting for?" Then, for the first time, she turned and looked at him. And what she was waiting for was in her eyes. "Well, don’t wait around here !" cried the boy savagely. "You won’t see nothing!" Her lips moved. "Nothing !" he cried. "It was all a joke, wasn’t it?" He turned to the other children. "Nothing’s happening today. Is it ?" They all blinked at him and then, understanding, laughed and shook their heads. "Nothing, nothing !" "Oh, but," Margot whispered, her eyes helpless. "But this is the day, the scientists predict, they say, they know, the sun…" "All a joke !" said the boy, and seized her roughly. "Hey, everyone, let’s put her in a closet before the teacher comes !" "No," said Margot, falling back. They surged about her, caught her up and bore her, protesting, and then pleading, and then crying, back into a tunnel, a room, a closet, where they slammed and locked the door. They stood looking at the door and saw it tremble from her beating and throwing herself against it. They heard her muffled cries. Then, smiling, the turned and went out and back down the tunnel, just as the teacher arrived. "Ready, children ?" She glanced at her watch. "Yes !" said everyone. "Are we all here ?" "Yes !" The rain slacked still more. They crowded to the huge door. The rain stopped. It was as if, in the midst of a film concerning an avalanche, a tornado, a hurricane, a volcanic eruption, something had, first, gone wrong with the sound apparatus, thus muffling and finally cutting off all noise, all of the blasts and repercussions and thunders, and then, second, ripped the film from the projector and inserted in its place a beautiful tropical slide which did not move or tremor. The world ground to a standstill. The silence was so immense and unbelievable that you felt your ears had been stuffed or you had lost your hearing altogether. The children put their hands to their ears. They stood apart. The door slid back and the smell of the silent, waiting world came in to them. The sun came out. It was the color of flaming bronze and it was very large. And the sky around it was a blazing blue tile color. And the jungle burned with sunlight as the children, released from their spell, rushed out, yelling into the springtime. "Now, don’t go too far," called the teacher after them. "You’ve only two hours, you know. You wouldn’t want to get caught out !" But they were running and turning their faces up to the sky and feeling the sun on their cheeks like a warm iron; they were taking off their jackets and letting the sun burn their arms. "Oh, it’s better than the sun lamps, isn’t it ?" "Much, much better !" They stopped running and stood in the great jungle that covered Venus, that grew and never stopped growing, tumultuously, even as you watched it. It was a nest of octopi, clustering up great arms of fleshlike weed, wavering, flowering in this brief spring. It was the color of rubber and ash, this jungle, from the many years without sun. It was the color of stones and white cheeses and ink, and it was the color of the moon. The children lay out, laughing, on the jungle mattress, and heard it sigh and squeak under them resilient and alive. They ran among the trees, they slipped and fell, they pushed each other, they played hideand-seek and tag, but most of all they squinted at the sun until the tears ran down their faces; they put their hands up to that yellowness and that amazing blueness and they breathed of the fresh, fresh air and listened and listened to the silence which suspended them in a blessed sea of no sound and no motion. They looked at everything and savored everything. Then, wildly, like animals escaped from their caves, they ran and ran in shouting circles. They ran for an hour and did not stop running. And then - In the midst of their running one of the girls wailed. Everyone stopped. The girl, standing in the open, held out her hand. "Oh, look, look," she said, trembling. They came slowly to look at her opened palm. In the center of it, cupped and huge, was a single raindrop. She began to cry, looking at it. They glanced quietly at the sun. "Oh. Oh." A few cold drops fell on their noses and their cheeks and their mouths. The sun faded behind a stir of mist. A wind blew cold around them. They turned and started to walk back toward the underground house, their hands at their sides, their smiles vanishing away. A boom of thunder startled them and like leaves before a new hurricane, they tumbled upon each other and ran. Lightning struck ten miles away, five miles away, a mile, a half mile. The sky darkened into midnight in a flash. They stood in the doorway of the underground for a moment until it was raining hard. Then they closed the door and heard the gigantic sound of the rain falling in tons and avalanches, everywhere and forever. "Will it be seven more years ?" "Yes. Seven." Then one of them gave a little cry. "Margot !" "What ?" "She’s still in the closet where we locked her." "Margot." They stood as if someone had driven them, like so many stakes, into the floor. They looked at each other and then looked away. They glanced out at the world that was raining now and raining and raining steadily. They could not meet each other’s glances. Their faces were solemn and pale. They looked at their hands and feet, their faces down. "Margot." One of the girls said, "Well… ?" No one moved. "Go on," whispered the girl. They walked slowly down the hall in the sound of cold rain. They turned through the doorway to the room in the sound of the storm and thunder, lightning on their faces, blue and terrible. They walked over to the closet door slowly and stood by it. Behind the closet door was only silence. They unlocked the door, even more slowly, and let Margot out
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Post by Scrappy Amazon on May 5, 2017 8:46:50 GMT -6
HUH...not sure why that posted n one long column.....
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Post by Phalon on May 6, 2017 6:03:20 GMT -6
Oh!!! I'll have to read later - gotta leave for work in a few minutes, but thanks!
I think it's neat that though Bradbury wrote "There Will Be Soft Rains" in 1950, some of the stuff in the story is actually used in Smart Homes now!
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