Summer morning summer night read. Ray Bradbury Summer Morning, Summer Night (compilation). Free Download A Summer Morning, A Summer Night by Ray Bradbury

Summer is over

One. Two. Hattie froze in bed, silently counting the lingering, slow beats of the courthouse chimes. Sleepy streets lay beneath the tower, and the city clock, round and white, became like the full moon, which at the end of summer invariably flooded the town with an icy glow. Hattie's heart skipped a beat.

She jumped up to look around at the empty alleys that marked the dark, motionless grass. Downstairs, the porch, disturbed by the wind, creaked barely audibly.

Looking in the mirror, she loosened her tight teacher's bun, and her long hair cascaded over her shoulders. The students would be surprised, she thought, if they happened to see these brilliant black waves. It’s not bad at all if you are already thirty-five. Trembling hands pulled out of the chest of drawers several small bundles hidden away. Lipstick, blush, eyebrow pencil, nail polish. Airy pale blue dress, like a cloud of fog. Pulling off her nondescript nightgown, she threw it on the floor, stepped barefoot on the rough material, and pulled the dress over her head.

She moistened her earlobes with drops of perfume, ran lipstick over her nervous lips, shaded her eyebrows, hastily painted her nails.

She stepped out onto the landing of the sleeping house. She glanced apprehensively at the three white doors: would they suddenly open? Leaning against the wall, she paused.

No one looked out into the corridor. Hattie stuck her tongue out at first one door, then two others.

As she descended, not a single step creaked on the stairs, now the path lay on the moonlit porch, and from there to the quiet street.

The air was already filled with the night aromas of September. The asphalt, still warm, warmed her thin, untanned legs.

How long have I wanted to do this. She plucked a blood-red rose to stick in her black hair, hesitated a bit and turned to the curtained eye sockets of the windows of her house: - No one will guess what I'm going to do now. - She circled, proud of her flying dress.

Bare feet trotted silently along a line of trees and dim lamps. Each bush, each fence seemed to appear before her anew, and from this bewilderment was born: “Why didn’t I dare to do this before?” Stepping off the pavement onto a dewy lawn, she deliberately paused to feel the prickly coolness of the grass.

The patrolman, Mr. Walzer, was walking down Glen Bay Street, singing something sad in his tenor. Hattie slipped behind a tree and, listening to his singing, followed his broad back with her eyes.

It was quite quiet near the courthouse, except for the fact that she herself hit her toes a couple of times on the steps of a rusty fire escape. On the upper landing, by the cornice, above which the city clock gleamed silver, she held out her hands.

Here it is, below - a sleeping town!

Thousands of rooftops gleamed from the moonlight snow.

She shook her fist and made faces at the night city. Turning towards the suburbs, mockingly pulled up the hem. She danced and laughed silently, and then snapped her fingers four times in different directions.

In less than a minute, she was already running with burning eyes across the silky city lawns.

Now the house of whispers appeared before her.

Hiding under a very specific window, she heard two male and female voices coming from the secret chamber.

Hattie leaned against the wall; only whispers, whispers reached her ears. They, like two moths, trembled inside, beat against the window glass. Then there was a muffled, distant laugh.

Hattie raised her hand to the glass, her face in awe. Beads of sweat appeared above the upper lip.

What was it? shouted the man behind the glass.

She ran for a long time before stopping again at the window, but in a completely different place.

In the light-flooded bathroom, which was the only lighted room in the whole town, stood a young man who, yawning, was carefully shaving in front of a mirror. Black-haired, blue-eyed, twenty-seven years old, he worked at the railway station and took ham sandwiches in a metal box to work every day. After dabbing his face with a towel, he turned off the light.

Hattie hid under the crown of a centuries-old oak - clung to the trunk, where there is a solid cobweb and some kind of plaque. The outer lock clicked, the gravel creaked underfoot, the metal lid clinked. When the air smelled of tobacco and fresh soap, she did not even have to turn around to understand that he was passing by.

Whistling through his teeth, he moved down the street towards the ravine. She followed him, running from tree to tree: either she flew behind the elm trunk with a white veil, then she hid behind the oak tree with a moon shadow. At some point, the man turned around. She barely managed to hide. With a beating heart, she waited. Silence. Then again his steps.

He was whistling "June Night".

A rainbow of lights perched over the edge of the cliff hurled his own shadow right at his feet. Hattie was within arm's reach, behind a century-old chestnut tree.

Stopping for the second time, he did not look back. Just sniffed the air.

The night wind brought the scent of her perfume to the other side of the ravine, as she intended.

She didn't move. Now was not her move. Exhausted from her pounding heart, she clung to the tree.

It seemed that for an hour he did not dare to take a step. She could hear the dew submissively disintegrating under his boots. The warm scents of tobacco and fresh soap wafted in close by.

He touched her wrist. She didn't open her eyes. And he didn't make a sound.

Somewhere in the distance the city clock struck three times.

His lips covered hers gently and lightly. Then they touched the ear.

He pressed her against the trunk. And he whispered. Here, it turns out, who was peeping at him through the windows for three nights in a row! He touched his lips to her neck. Here, then, who was stealthily following him on his heels last night! He peered into her face. The shadows of thick branches lay softly on her lips, cheeks, forehead, and only her eyes, burning with a living brilliance, could not be hidden. She is wonderfully beautiful - does she herself know this? Until recently, he considered it an obsession. His laugh was no louder than a secret whisper. Without taking his eyes off her, he slipped his hand into his pocket. He lit a match and raised it to the height of her face to get a better look, but she pulled his fingers to her and held it in her palm along with the extinguished match. A moment later, the match fell into the dewy grass.

Let it go, he said.

She didn't look up at him. He silently took her by the elbow and pulled her away.

Looking at her untanned legs, she walked with him to the edge of a cool ravine, at the bottom of which, between mossy, willow-covered banks, a silent stream flowed.

He hesitated. A little more and she would have raised her eyes to make sure of his presence. Now they were standing in a lighted place, and she diligently turned her head away so that he could see only the flowing darkness of her hair and the whiteness of her forearms.

He said:

The darkness of the summer night breathed in her calm warmth.

The answer was her hand reaching out to his face.

The next morning, descending the stairs, Hattie found her grandmother, Aunt Maude, and Cousin Jacob munching on their cold breakfast on both cheeks, and were not very happy when she, too, pulled out a chair for herself. Hattie came out to them in a dull long dress with a blank collar. Her hair was pulled back into a tight little bun, and on her carefully washed face, her bloodless lips and cheeks looked completely white. There was no trace left of the summed up eyebrows and painted eyelashes. Nails, one would think, had never known glitter polish.

You're late, Hattie, - as if by agreement, they all stretched out in chorus, as soon as she sat down at the table.

Do not lean on porridge, Aunt Maud warned. - It's already half past nine. It's time for school. The director will give you the first number. There is nothing to say, the teacher sets a good example for the students.

All three glared at her. Hattie smiled.

You're late for the first time in twenty years, Hattie," Aunt Maud insisted.

Still smiling, Hattie did not move.

It's time to leave, they said.

In the hallway, Hattie pinned her straw hat to her hair and unhooked her green umbrella. The family did not take their eyes off her. On the threshold she flushed, turned around and looked at them for a long time, as if preparing to say something. They even leaned forward. But she only smiled and ran out onto the porch, slamming the door.

The release of a whole collection dedicated to the magical city (no, not even a city, but rather, perhaps, the whole Magic Land) Greentown was a wonderful surprise for me. I started reading immediately, because I love this whole cycle by Bradbury, and indeed everything.

Most of the stories are presented in the original author's edition, more than half of the stories were not included in any other collections.

The collection turned out to be just excellent, despite the fact that the author again and again returns to his favorite themes and plots. In the story “There and Back Again,” an elderly couple decided to shake off the old days and go out into the world, but was it worth it? But the main character of the story “Miss Bidwell” has not left the house further than the veranda for forty years, and even got rid of the stairs. The theme of old age and approaching death is masterfully revealed in the sad story “Someone has died”. The theme of first love is devoted to the stories "Summer is over", "Big fire", "Summer walk", "Anything happens". In the latter, we are told a sad touching story of friendship between a fourteen-year-old boy and his teacher. Children and carefree Summer are the heroes of most of the stories in the collection.

There is no point in retelling all the stories. I will add that "Pioneers" and the stories that follow it are miniatures or micro-stories of just a few paragraphs, but at the same time they claim to be called real masterpieces.

Bradbury continues to write, delight, surprise. This collection is a real gift to all fans of his Creativity and Talent.

Score: 10

ALL AUTUMN IN ONE BOOK

“All these miracles were predicted by a single soothsayer - the first day of September”

Despite the twice “summer” title of the collection, it has an autumnal mood. The first story says that “Summer is over”, and the last short story “At the End of Summer” is nothing more than a poetic epitaph to the brightest and warmest season of the year. The characters of the stories will live “All Summer in One Night”, “In June, in the Dark Hour of the Night”, or freeze in the dreary winter twilight, thaw, coming to life in the spring, they will also have to, but still the real queen of this ball is autumn. A red-haired beauty, kind, understanding, attentive and sensual, coming as a harbinger of the sunset of life, gently hugging before the winter in which we all die.

“The deceased must be laid rank by rank, covered with appropriate words and pauses, and only then taken for the next one”

According to Bradbury, the seasons are not just seasonal climate changes, but stages of the life path: the bright spring of childhood, the burning summer of youth, autumn wise with maturity, gradually turning into old age-winter, in which the frosty breath of death is more and more clearly felt. That is why, even on the hottest days, old people cannot warm themselves with the sun alone, the cold does not let them go, they need stronger warmth, human, cordial. The fire of youth that they find in their grandchildren or draw from memories when they are alone.

“He was only twenty, and with every woman that sat on the porch when he walked by, or waved from the bus, he was connected by a failed romance”

"Summer Morning, Summer Night" is the third part of an autobiographical trilogy, begun by the writer with the famous novel "Dandelion Wine" back in 1957. The reader will meet here Douglas, and Tom Spaulding, and their grandparents, other familiar characters. In 2006, a sequel to Goodbye Summer was published, which was originally part of Dandelion Wine, but at the insistence of the editor was withdrawn during publication. The final book of the cycle consists of "leftovers and scraps" that were not included in the first two; it saw the light exactly half a century after "Wine", the year after "Summer", in 2007.

"This portrait is woven from all dreams, from all women, from all moonlit nights since creation"

“Twenty-seven stories”, declared by the publishers, is not entirely accurate, about a third of them cannot be called full-fledged stories at all, and they belong to the type of works that is now defined as “micro” - volume per page, or even less. For example, the short stories "Projector" and "Serious Conversation" are the size of a small paragraph. Although, of course, in the case of Bradbury, size is not important, he can put more sense in one sentence than other writers in a multi-volume series.

“Summer already foresaw its end, rounded off, shook out the last sparkling grains of sand from the upper flask of the hourglass”

In the past, Ray Bradbury, thanks to Soviet censorship, appeared to the reader as a good-natured writer, sentimental and soft, almost “plush”, the toughest thing of which was the novel Fahrenheit 451. Now we know that kindness and sentimentality did not take away from the writer the ability to really look at the world. Even for such an "adult child". He loves people, but understands that they are capable of much, and in this much there is both good and evil; he loves the living, but does not experience a panic fear of the dead, knowing that death is a part of life, one of the most significant, its final page; he admires love, although sometimes it brings more sadness than joy. Most importantly, Bradbury loves readers to whom he slowly tells all this.

“When you understand that there is always a particle of evil in human nature, it will be easier for you to survive”

Score: 9

"Summer morning, summer night" left behind pleasant, such warm impressions! From feelings, experiences and images, Ray creates, like a magician, such inspired and heartfelt pictures, delightful stories with fascinating content! I liked a lot of stories from the collection, almost all of them, but I’ll write a few words about the very best:

"Big Fire" about a young girl enjoying the taste of life...

"All Summer in One Night" is about a shrewd boy who takes a lonely teacher to the movies at night, and she reincarnates that night...

"Miss Bidwell" is about an old woman who waited 50 years for a man who once passed through her life and left an indelible mark...

"Scream from Underground" about how everything that goes beyond the reality of adults is written off in cases with children to their violent fantasy...

"Everything Happens" - this story touched the most, it is so lyrical and dramatic! The free passion and affection of the teacher and student that flared up past makes them spend time together, after school she checks notebooks, and he cleans the classroom in complete silence, but enjoying each other's existence and presence. He began to meet her in the morning before school and carried her books; she even once came to the park, where he arranged a picnic for her ... but suddenly and sadly this story of unbridled feelings ended tragically ...

Score: 10

"Summer morning, summer night" - does the title speak for itself? A collection of short stories about summer? Nothing like this! This book is something more. While reading it, you can feel the light breath of spring and the aroma of buds blooming on trees; or take a deep breath of the sultry air of freshly cut summer grass; and sometimes it may seem to you that autumn is already breathing in your back - just turn around and you can catch a bright whirlpool of fallen leaves or catch sweet-smelling apples from a tree.

Reading this collection, you feel like drinking. From the pages, icy cold water glides towards you, capable of invigorating better than any coffee; or warm milk, soothing after a long, stressful day; and if you want inspiration, you can also find apple cider flavored with a drop of honey and a pinch of cinnamon.

Here you can find stories for every taste. If you want romance, read "Summer Walk"; tired of entertainment and you are drawn to think about something serious, then "Projector", "Seven-handed" or "Serious conversation (or world evil)" is just for you. If you want something like horror stories or some kind of "black", and for you there is a "Scream from the ground" or "I have it, but you don't have it!". And to observe how different people are and what is going on between them, you will need “All Summer in One Night” or “There and Back Again”.

In a word, the collection "Summer Morning, Summer Night" deserves ten. If there were more, I would rate it even higher.

Score: 10

An excellent collection of short stories from the Grigtown cycle. A sequel to Dandelion Wine, although like the above novel, this collection does not have a plot as such. It's just that these stories are united by one town - Grigtown, where the action takes place, and the inhabitants who live in it, adults and children.

But for Bradbury's stories, the main thing is not the plot. Emotionality, formed by the magnificent and unique language of the author, is the value of these stories. Bright colors, smells, coolness of summer nights, heat of July days - all this is felt by the reader! But of course, the various shades of emotions and thoughts of the characters, masterfully described by Bradbury, make you read these stories.

The collection is read in one breath, in one evening, without stopping. Leaves behind a pleasant shade of light sadness. And a desire to read (or re-read) other Bradbury stories.

Score: 9

Nearly three dozen stories and sketches are collected under the cover of a small book - old, fifties (but in the original author's edition), and completely new stories. Most of them are about children, teenagers and old people from the town of Greentown, the first news from which readers around the world learned from the novel Dandelion Wine. "Summer is over" is the title of the 1948 short story that opens the collection. "All summer in one night" - another story ... Summer never ends! - not at all hidden meaning-message of the collection of a wonderful writer. You just need to be able to see what is not entirely obvious, you just need to perform actions that are not accepted in an inveterate society. Like the thirty-five-year-old teacher from the first story throwing off the canons-shackles.

There are only one or two fantastic stories in the collection ... But more than forty years ago, Bradbury's "Dandelion Wine" was published in the famous series of the publishing house "Mir" "Foreign Fiction", and this book is from the same series. Doesn't it happen? "Anything happens" is the title of a story about the love of a student and a teacher, written sixty years ago. This story is not at all surprising ... But the burning niece Marianne, who changes lovers every evening (“The Big Fire”), and forty years of voluntary seclusion, which an old love forces to interrupt (“Miss Bidwell”), and “Scream from Underground” ( not at all “mandrake root”), and a look “through dusty glass” (“Cemetery (or Crypt)”) ... To prove that there can be no real beauties, a young guy even digs up a grave (story “Beauty”). What does he find in the coffin? A young shoot of a green fern, a leaf of summer mint, a peach, a violet, a rose ... Here he understands: "She is beautiful." Everything happens ... “Love is a wonderful thing” (and she doesn’t need any “love potion”), the first kiss is “very gentle”, but how wonderful it is to “swim through the transparent elements of dreams and wake up” (in “Summer Walk” 1979) .

At the end of the book - a dozen new very short stories, about everything in the world. “And all these miracles were predicted by a single soothsayer” - this is how the last story ends ... All these miracles were shown to us by a single writer! Bradbury was over ninety, and he still gave out new books, they are still a pleasure to read. It's not fantasy, it's reality!

Rating: no

"Summer Morning, Summer Night" is a collection of short stories much closer to the first part than the second book. For those whom Goodbye Summer disappointed, the third book, perhaps, will be a balm for the soul. Echoes of the first novel resound in it with might and main.

Only, perhaps, it is sadder, more permeated with notes of regret that it will not return, about missed opportunities, meetings, people, about what could have happened and not happened ...

Separate stories of the inhabitants of Greentown - and the main leitmotif this time is love. The vast majority of the stories in the collection are about love - what happened or almost happened, the one that could be, and the one that will never be - but about love between a man and a woman.

And also, Douglas, of course, is an amazing character, a wonderful hero, but for some reason it seems to me that his brother Tom is closer to the author himself. Maybe I'm wrong, but that's how it looks like.

Score: 8

"Summer Morning, Summer Night" seems to me a very accurate title for a recently published collection of short stories by Ray Bradbury. Despite the fact that it is mostly filled with sunny, lyrical stories, some of them have a place for sad notes and intonations.

In many stories, the main theme is love. So in the story "All Summer in One Night", thematically close to another work "A Story of Love", this is not the first time Bradbury refers to the topic "all ages are submissive to love." No one noticed all the inner beauty hidden in Miss Welks. Only the very young Douglas Spaulding was able to see her and wonder why others did not notice this.

The theme of love continues in the story "Miss Bidwell". This story also echoes one of Bradbury's stories, Death and the Maiden. Only here life gives a second chance to a single woman.

Sad notes (which I mentioned earlier) sound in the stories "Night meeting", "Someone died", "There and back".

In the first one, going on an ordinary night flight around the city, William Beckett meets that one, but he cannot utter the most intimate, such important words for her. In "There and Back Again", an elderly couple going for a walk in the city realizes that many of the little joys of life no longer bring as many positive emotions as before. The old people from “Someone died” understand that they are not eternal and their end is near, because all their talk about friends, acquaintances, neighbors comes down to the fact that “someone died”.

But there are still more joyful, sunny stories in the collection. This and "Summer walk", revealing all about the miracle of the first kiss; and the ironic story "Big Fire"; and the fairy tale "The river that rushes into the sea"; and a delightful little "sketch" of "Pioneers". A little, in my opinion, the story “Scream from the Underground” is knocked out of the context of the collection, but at the same time many of its merits do not negate.

A new collection of Ray Bradbury stories about Greentown - sips of the famous "dandelion wine", transporting everyone to a wonderful summer time.

Score: 10

Throughout his career, R. Bradbury did not get tired of sharing with us the story of his life, this was best done within the framework of Greentown stories. After the release of the novels “Dandelion Wine” and “Goodbye Summer”, where the plot was the story of growing up of Doug Spaulding, in whose image the features of the author himself are guessed, there is still a mass of unrealized materials, stories that also take place in Greentown. Some of them were published as part of different collections, but under the same cover they saw the light only in 2007, forming the collection “Summer Morning, Summer Night”. Many of the stories in this book could easily be included in Dandelion Wine, some resemble sketches, ideas that could be implemented in novels. Here we again get a chance to meet both famous characters and still unfamiliar inhabitants of Greentown. The main thing is that the spirit and atmosphere that made us fall in love with dandelion wine is preserved almost everywhere.

At first glance, the content of the book is breathtaking - as many as 27 stories that were not included in the original novels, but with a closer look, the enthusiasm may decrease. The first 10 stories of the collection have already been published before, and if you have closely followed the work of Bradbury, then they should be familiar to you. The collection is completed by 11 micro-stories, each of them in volume from several pages to a couple of paragraphs. As a result, it turns out that of the full-fledged short stories not familiar to the reader, we are offered only 6 stories, half of which were written in the late 40s and early 50s. Agree, not at all thick ... These facts must be borne in mind in order not to build unfounded illusions. Nevertheless, if you really liked Dandelion Wine, then this book should be read without fail - not as a continuation, but as additional materials that provide exquisite food for philosophical reflection, fresh colors and new meanings to previously read.

Stories that raise themes of love and death are at the forefront here. Quite often, the heroes of stories are old people, but children rarely come to the fore, teenagers and young people take their place. It is interesting that the author equates love and youth, death and old age, and biological age is not so important - the denial of love is always fatal, at the same time it can prolong life even in a body fading from the burden of years. All stories are strictly realistic, although the poetic gift of the author sometimes blurs the line between fiction and reality. Significant importance is also given to descriptions of nature, which is presented here not only in summer, but also in spring attire, in luxurious late autumn dresses. The small volume of most of the stories evokes associations with a film in the apparatus of a skilled operator - masterful freeze-frames, appropriate editing and close-ups turn the reader into a spectator who bought a ticket for the last show at the Elite cinema in Greentown.

I will not go into detail about the first ten stories that have already been published, I will only say that many of them are worthy of repeated reading. In particular, I would like to highlight three novels. The process of turning a modest girl into a relaxed sensual woman is perfectly shown in the story "Summer is over" - this is a very lyrical and at the same time motivating story. The author managed to catch the fine line of transition from childhood to youth in the story "Jump-jump" - there are colorful descriptions of nature and the miracle of the birth of the first feeling, and everything else - a figurative allegory of life, like a children's game of classics. An obligatory addition to "Wine" I will name the story "In June, in the dark hour of the night." The story of the Murderer, which is largely left behind the scenes in the novel, is presented here in the first person. The author gives us the opportunity to recognize and understand this character, here the psychological prerequisites for his behavior are revealed, from the plot function, the Soul Killer turns into a person.

Now let's move on to the 6 short stories that make up the core of the collection. It is generally accepted that love, which turns into a habit over the years, is something bad, the author seeks to prove the opposite to us in the story “There and Back Again”. When two people who have lived side by side for almost half a century feel good and comfortable together - what could be better? Yes, the world outside the window is full of miracles and temptations, bright events and joyful meetings, but all this is not so important when you are in your place, and you clearly understand that you have long found what you were looking for.

Nobody argues that one should strive for the ideal, even if it is unattainable in real life - the main thing is to know that it exists. The protagonist of the story "Beauty", a young man who has not yet met his soul mate, is impressed by the stories of the old-timers of Greentown, who remember the young beauty, the most beautiful girl in the world, who died in her youth many years ago. To get to the bottom of the truth, the hero is ready for anything, but is the game worth the candle if a dream is supposed to be and remain a dream.

There is nothing more beautiful than love, the author is convinced, people deprived of this gift are doomed and worthy only of sympathy, because, being alive, they have long since died. In the story "The Love Potion", two elderly sisters meet a young girl near the house, who, in their opinion, is unrequitedly in love. To help the unfortunate woman, they give her a bottle of a love potion, a unique remedy. However, will magic work where the gods are powerless, which is stronger - love or envy, life or death?

It happens that one moment can decide life, one confident step towards happiness, which can be taken or not... falls in love, but how to express your feelings, how to admit that you fell in love like this, immediately and unconditionally. To say now or maybe tomorrow, and there is less and less time left until the final stop ...

Why do people like watching crime chronicles so much, discussing the deaths of famous people or just their acquaintances? The answer is simple - we ourselves are mortal and behind the ostentatious grief we hide the hidden relief that this did not happen to us and not now. The characters of the story "Someone died" two elderly couples meet after a long separation - what to talk about, what to discuss - everything revolves around the fate of mutual friends, but what will everyone think when it's time to say goodbye?

Unlike adults, children perceive death in a completely different way, they simply do not believe that it is forever, that this is not a game, but a cruel reality. In the story “I have, but you don’t have!” Two 10-year-old classmates choose a rather scary way to compete in who is the toughest after one of them is diagnosed with a terminal illness. The realization that everything will really come sooner or later, but that's what intrigues the inevitable denouement, which turned out to be sharp and unexpected.

Now let's turn to micronarratives. In the sketch "Pioneers" one can guess the working preparation for the story "Echoes of the Running Summer", which became part of "Dandelion Wine". Here the author managed to convey that childish impatience with which the coming of holidays and thousands of summer fun are expected, when it will already be possible to throw off hateful winter shoes and run barefoot on the grass, and even better in light tennis shoes. One of the best short stories in Bradbury's work - "The Messenger" - will be reminded of the story "Dog", here I recalled an episode of Doug's illness, why not imagine that at that time he could have had such a dog that would bring him smells in his wool summer?

A small touch to the image of Tom Spalding is added by “The River That Rushed to the Sea” - a smart boy beyond his years still believes in fairy tales, this piece could well have entered the main text of “Wine”. The boys have hundreds of different amusements, everyone can remember something from this series, referring to their childhood. In the sketch “Fly, fly, fly ...”, the author recalled several children's entertainments, in principle, this piece fits well into the text of the novel “Summer, Farewell”.

The ability to dream is one of the properties of a real child, regardless of age, which the author noted in the sketch "Projector". The next two fragments contain the wisdom of Grandpa Spaulding addressing his grandson, the philosophical thoughts set forth in the micro-stories "Seven-Armed" and "Serious Conversation" seem to me to have been omitted from the text of "Guilt" just to reduce the length of the novel. It is especially disappointing that the main text did not include a fragment of "Firefly", where the old Spalding talks about the essence of true love, criticizing the cinematic "love-carrot" - a brilliant episode, colorful and deep, which simply must be part of "Guilt".

An addition to the allegorical anti-war story "The Last Circus" from the collection "West of October" can be called the sketch "The Circus", in which Tom Spaulding, late for the performance, tries to imagine how it was, why and where the bright holiday left Greentown. The story “Cemetery (or Crypt)” left a very strong impression in itself, which evokes associations with the cemetery scene from the novel “Farewell to Summer”, but the atmosphere is much deeper and more tragic. Here the author managed to convey the transience of life, a thin line separating being from its opposite, parts of the story are separated from each other by decades, but the sense of time is blurred here. In general, I re-read this thing three times in a row, not because I didn’t catch something, but it’s just a small masterpiece, in my opinion.

The collection ends with the sketch “At the end of summer” - the title itself already speaks for itself, and the author is trying with all his might to create that very atmosphere of light sadness and the greatness of the fading nature. Beautiful landscape descriptions, poetic style - everything is fine here, only I would like more volume and at least a little plot.

All the stories included in the collection are different, but by and large the author in each of them urges not to be afraid to move forward, earn your own experience, explore the world and open up to your own feelings, listen to wise people, but do not forget that the heart will always tell the right one. way out of any situation. Despite certain reservations, the collection turned out to be wonderful, thanks to the author for just one opportunity to return to Greentown again. Even Bradbury's simplest observations are important building blocks of Life. The author gives us material, but not a ready-made scheme, each reader is free to choose a project to his liking, someone will build a luxurious palace, and someone will build a rickety barrack. But I still believe that the Greentown experience will not pass without a trace, everyone will be able to learn something useful from these stories, and if something doesn’t work out, doubts arise, well, you can always go back to the books you read and try to start all over again, maybe.

In every man, even if he is unaware of it, even if there are no such thoughts, the image of a woman whom he is destined to love is glimmering. From what her image is woven - from all the melodies that sounded in his life, from all the trees, from childhood friends - no one dares to say for sure. Whose eyes she has: if not his own mother, whose chin: if not a cousin who swam with him in the lake a quarter of a century ago - no one is allowed to know this. But read, every man carries this portrait with him, like a medallion, like a mother-of-pearl cameo, but he rarely brings it to light, and after the wedding he doesn’t even touch it to avoid comparisons. Not everyone happens to meet his betrothed, unless she flashes in the darkness of a cinema, on the pages of a book or somewhere on the street. And even then after midnight, when the city is already asleep, and the pillow is cold. This portrait is woven from all dreams, from all women, from all moonlit nights since creation.

Girls, when they are in love, only seem stupid, because they do not hear anything at that time.

Ray Bradbury. Summer morning, summer night

You will never know how this girl at some point suddenly becomes a trot. This is where the man gets caught.

Ray Bradbury. Summer morning, summer night

Some consciously choose this fate: they crave like crazy for the view outside the window to change every week, every month, every year, but with age they begin to realize that they are only collecting worthless roads and unnecessary cities, no more solid than movie scenery. , and see off with the eyes of mannequins that flicker in the shop windows outside the window of a slow night train.

Ray Bradbury. Summer morning, summer night

Perhaps the time will come when people will learn to recognize the maturity of character and will say: this is a real man, although he is only fourteen years old. By chance and fate, he became a mature person who soberly evaluates himself, knows what responsibility and a sense of duty are. But until that time has come, age and height will serve as a measure.

Ray Bradbury. Summer morning, summer night

The kiss is only the first note of the first measure. And then a symphony will go, but a cacophony can happen ...

Ray Bradbury. Summer morning, summer night

And he thought: sing under the windows, sing under the apple trees, sing in the yard until the guitar chords reached her ears, until she shed tears. Make a woman cry - you've won. All her pride will be removed as if by hand, and music will help you with this.

To John Eller, with love.

SUMMERMORNING,SUMMERNIGHT

Copyright © 2008 by Ray Bradbury

© Petrova E., translation into Russian, notes, 2014

© Edition in Russian, design. LLC "Publishing house" Eksmo ", 2014

* * *

The text of the story "Summer is over" is based on the version selected by the author for the collection Blind Driving (1997). The texts of the other previously published stories included in this collection are based on the earliest published versions. I am indebted to David Speech, my colleague at the Institute of American Philosophy at Indiana State University, for editing this collection.

Summer is over

D va. One. Two. Hattie froze in bed, silently counting the lingering, slow beats of the courthouse chimes. Sleepy streets lay beneath the tower, and the city clock, round and white, became like the full moon, which at the end of summer invariably flooded the town with an icy glow. Hattie's heart skipped a beat.

She jumped up to look around at the empty alleys that marked the dark, motionless grass. On the porch, a rocking chair creaked faintly, disturbed by the wind.

She moistened her earlobes with drops of perfume, ran lipstick over her nervous lips, shaded her eyebrows, hastily painted her nails.

She stepped out onto the landing of the sleeping house. She glanced apprehensively at the three white doors: would they suddenly open? Leaning against the wall, she paused.

No one looked out into the corridor. Hattie stuck her tongue out at first one door, then two others.

As she descended, not a single step creaked on the stairs; now the path led to a moonlit porch, and from there to a hushed street.

The air was already filled with the night aromas of September. The asphalt, still warm, warmed her thin, untanned legs.

How long have I wanted to do this.

She plucked a blood-red rose to stick in her black hair, hesitated a moment, and turned to the curtained eye sockets of her house's windows.

No one will guess what I'm going to do now.

She circled, admiring her flying dress.

Bare feet trotted silently along a line of trees and dim lamps. Each bush, each fence seemed to appear before her anew, and bewilderment was born from this: “Why didn’t I dare to do this before?” Stepping off the pavement onto a dewy lawn, she deliberately paused to feel the prickly coolness of the grass.

The patrolman, Mr. Waltzer, was walking down Glen Bay Street, singing something sad in his tenor. Hattie slipped behind a tree and, listening to his singing, followed his broad back with her eyes.

Here it is, below - a sleeping town!

Thousands of rooftops gleamed from the moonlight snow.

In less than a minute, she ran with burning eyes across the silky city lawns.

Now the house of whispers appeared before her.

Hiding under a very specific window, she heard two voices coming from the chamber of secrets, a male and a female.

Hattie leaned against the wall; only whispers, whispers reached her ears. They, like two moths, trembled from the inside, beat against the window pane. Then there was a muffled, distant laugh.

Hattie raised her hand to the shutters; face took on a reverent expression. Beads of sweat appeared above the upper lip.

- What was it? shouted the man behind the glass.

Then Hattie, like a cloud of mist, darted away and disappeared into the night.

She ran for a long time before stopping again at the window, but in a completely different place.

In the light-filled bathroom—it was the only lighted room in the whole town—was a young man who, yawning, was carefully shaving in front of a mirror. Black-haired, blue-eyed, twenty-seven years old, he worked at the railway station and daily took to work a metal box that contained ham sandwiches. After dabbing his face with a towel, he turned off the light.

Hattie crouched under the canopy of a century-old oak, clinging to the trunk, where there was a solid cobweb and some kind of plaque. The outer lock clicked, the gravel creaked underfoot, the metal lid clinked. When the air smelled of tobacco and fresh soap, she did not even have to turn around to understand that he was passing by.

Whistling through his teeth, he moved down the street towards the ravine. She follows him, running from tree to tree: either she flew behind the elm trunk with a white veil, then she hid behind the oak tree like a moon shadow. At some point, the man turned around. She barely managed to hide. With a beating heart, she waited. Silence. Then again his steps.

He was whistling "June Night".

A rainbow of lights perched over the edge of the cliff hurled his own shadow right at his feet. Hattie was within arm's reach, behind a century-old chestnut tree.

Stopping for the second time, he did not look back. Just sniffed the air.

The night wind carried the scent of her perfume to the other side of the ravine, just as she had intended.

She didn't move. Now was not her move. Exhausted from her pounding heart, she clung to the tree.

It seemed that for an hour he did not dare to take a step. She could hear the dew submissively disintegrating under his boots. The warm scents of tobacco and fresh soap wafted in close by.

He touched her wrist. She did not open her eyes. And he didn't make a sound.

Somewhere in the distance the city clock struck three times.

His lips covered hers gently and lightly.

Then they touched the ear. He pressed her against the trunk. And he whispered. Here, it turns out, who peeped at him through the windows for three nights in a row! He touched his lips to her neck. Here, then, who was stealthily following him on his heels last night! He peered into her face. The shadows of thick branches lay softly on her lips, cheeks, forehead, and only her eyes, burning with a living brilliance, could not be hidden. She is wonderfully beautiful - does she know this herself? Until recently, he considered it an obsession. His laugh was no louder than a secret whisper. Without taking his eyes off her, he slipped his hand into his pocket. He lit a match and raised it to the height of her face to get a better look, but she pulled his fingers to her and held it in her palm along with the extinguished match. A moment later, the match fell into the dewy grass.

“Let it go,” he said.

She didn't look up at him. He silently took her by the elbow and pulled her away.

Looking at her untanned legs, she walked with him to the edge of a cool ravine, at the bottom of which, between mossy, willow-covered banks, a silent stream flowed.

He said:

The darkness of the summer night breathed in her calm warmth.

The answer was her hand reaching out to him.

* * *

The next morning, descending the stairs, Hattie found her grandmother, Aunt Maude, and Cousin Jacob munching on their cold breakfast on both cheeks, and were not very happy when she, too, pulled out a chair for herself. Hattie came out to them in a dull long dress with a blank collar. Her hair was pulled back into a tight little bun; on the carefully washed face, the bloodless lips and cheeks seemed completely white. There was no trace left of the summed up eyebrows and painted eyelashes. Nails seem to have never known sparkling polish.

“You’re late, Hattie,” they all said in unison, as if she had just sat down at the table.

“Don’t eat too much porridge,” Aunt Maud warned. - It's already half past nine. It's time for school. The director will give you the first number. There is nothing to say, the teacher sets a good example for the students.

All three glared at her. Hattie smiled.

“You’re late for the first time in twelve years, Hattie,” Aunt Maud insisted.

Still smiling, Hattie did not move.

“It’s time to leave,” they said.

big fire

IN that morning, when a great fire broke out, the household was powerless. My mother's niece Marianne, who was staying with us while her parents were traveling around Europe, was engulfed in flames. So: no one managed to break the glass of a fire extinguisher in a red casing installed on the corner in order to turn on the fire fighting system and call firefighters in iron helmets by clicking the toggle switch. Flashing brighter than a cellophane wrapper, Marianne went down to the dining room, let out a scream or a groan, flopped into a chair and barely touched her breakfast.

Mom and dad recoiled - an unbearable heat blew on them.

- Good morning, Marianne.

- A? Marianne looked through them and said absently: “Ah, good morning.”

How did you sleep, Marianne?

In fact, they knew that she couldn't sleep at all. Mom poured water for Marianne, and everyone waited for steam to rise from the glass in the girl's hands. Grandmother, seated in her dining chair, studied Marianne's inflamed eyes.

“Yes, you are unwell, only it is not a virus,” she concluded. You can't even see it under a microscope.

- I'm sorry, what? Marianne asked.

“Love is the godmother of stupidity,” my father said inappropriately.

“Everything will pass,” Mom said to him. - It only seems that girls are stupid - because love has a bad effect on hearing.

“Love has a bad effect on the vestibular apparatus,” said the father. - From this, the girls fall straight into the arms of men. I already know. I was almost crushed by one young lady, and I can say ...

- Quiet you! - Mom, looking sideways in the direction of Marianne, frowned.

- Yes, she does not hear: she has a stupor.

“He will drive up in his carriage now,” mother whispered, turning to her father, as if Marianne was not around, “and they will go for a ride.”

My father dabbed at his lips with a napkin.

Was our daughter really the same, Mommy? - he asked. - I forgot something - she has been independent for a long time, she has been married for so many years. I don't remember her being that stupid. When a girl is in such a state, her mind is not noticeable. This is what captivates a man. He thinks to himself: “A pretty little fool, she dreams of me, I’ll marry her.” He got married, and wakes up the next morning - daydreaming is as if it had not happened, out of nowhere brains appeared, junk has already been unpacked, bras and panties are hanging all over the house. Just look, you will get tangled in strings and ropes. And the husband from the whole world is left with a tiny island - a living room. He reached for honey, but fell into a bear trap; rejoiced that he had caught a butterfly, and looked closer - a wasp. Here he begins to invent hobbies for himself: philately, Freemasonry, and something else ...

- Enough, as much as possible! Mom screamed. - Marianne, tell us about your young man. How is it there? Isaac van Pelt, right?

- I'm sorry, what? Ah… yes, Isaac.

All night long, Marianne tossed about in bed: either she grabbed a volume of poetry and sorted out ornate lines, or she turned over from her back to her stomach to look out the window at a sleepy world flooded with moonlight. All night long, the scent of jasmine tormented her and she was tormented by the unusual heat for early spring (and the thermometer showed fifty-five Fahrenheit). If someone looked through the keyhole, he would see a half-dead moth in the bed.

And the next morning she stood in front of the mirror, clapped her hands over her head and went downstairs to breakfast, almost forgetting to put on her dress.

At the table, grandmother laughed at something every now and then. Finally she could not stand it and said aloud:

“You have to eat, baby, otherwise you won’t have the strength.”

Then Marianne nibbled off a piece of toast, turned it over in her fingers and bit off exactly half. At that moment, a klaxon howled outside the window. It's Isaac! On your carriage!

- Oh! - exclaimed Marianne and flew out from behind the table like a bullet.

Young Isaac van Pelt was invited into the house and introduced to his family.

When Marianne finally drove away, my father sank into a chair and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

- Well well. This is no gate...

“Why, you yourself said that it was time for her to go on dates,” my mother teased.

“I don’t know who pulled my tongue,” said my father. “But she's been hanging around here for six months now, and there's still that much left. So I thought: if she could find the right guy...

- ... and marry him, - Grandma grimly croaked, - then she would quickly move out of us, right?

“Basically,” said the father.

“In general terms,” Grandmother repeated.

“The further, the worse,” said the father. “The girl is flying around the house with her eyes closed, singing something, spinning these records with love songs, damn them, and talking to herself. There is a limit to human patience. By the way, she also laughs for no reason. I wonder if there are many eighteen-year-olds in the psychiatric hospital?

“Looks like a decent young man,” Mom said.

- It remains only to trust in the will of God. Father took out a glass. - For early marriages!

The next morning, Marianne, hearing a car horn, rushed out the door like a fireball. The young man did not even have time to climb the porch. Only the grandmother, crouching at the living room window, saw the couple rush off into the distance.

“Almost knocked me off my feet. Father stroked his mustache. - What's happening? Are brains melting? Oh well.

By evening, Marianne came home and danced across the living room to the record cabinet. The needle of the gramophone hissed. The song "Ancient Black Magic" was played twenty-one times, and Marianne, singing "la-la-la", with her eyes closed, circled around the room.

“You can’t enter the living room in your own house,” my father complained. “I retired to smoke cigars and enjoy life, and I have to watch this weak creature curl and buzz under the chandelier - my niece.

- Quiet you! mum shushed.

“For me, this is the collapse of my life,” my father announced. It's good that she just came to visit.

“You understand what it means for a girl to come to visit. Far from home, it seems to her that she is in France, in Paris. She will leave us in October. There is nothing left.

“It’s like looking at it,” my father said, making some mental calculations. “Maybe I won’t make it a hundred and thirty days until that time and I’ll leave you myself - to the cemetery.” He jumped up from his chair and angrily threw away the newspaper, which was frozen on the floor like a white tent. “Honestly, Mommy, I’ll tell her everything now.

With a decisive step, he went to the doors of the living room and stopped, watching the dancing Marianne.

- La! she sang to the beat of the music.

Coughing, my father stepped over the threshold.

- Marianne! he called.

- "Ancient black magic ..." - Marianne deduced. - I'm sorry, what?

He followed the smooth movements of her hands. Dancing past her father, she suddenly glared at him.

- I need to talk to you. He straightened his tie.

“Da-dum-dee-doo-dum-de-dum-dee-doo-dum,” she sang.

- Can you hear me? the father asked sternly.

"He's such a sweetheart," she snapped.

- I do not argue.

“Just think, he bows and opens the doors for me, just like a porter, and also plays the trumpet like Harry James, and brought me a bouquet of daisies this morning!”

- Let's admit it.

- He has blue eyes. She looked up at the ceiling.

Father did not see anything remarkable there.

And she kept looking at the ceiling, where there was not the slightest leak, not a crack, and danced without stopping, even when her father came very close and repeated with a sigh:

- Marianne.

We ate lobster in a restaurant by the river.

- Lobsters - of course, but we do not want you to overwork, exhausted. Someday - that's right tomorrow - stay at home, help Aunt Mat cut napkins.

- Yes, sir. - As in a dream, she floated around the room, spreading her wings.

Did you hear what was said to you? - the father went out of himself.

“Yes,” she whispered. - Oh yeah. - And again, without opening his eyes: - Yes, yes.

- Uncle. She tilted her head back, rocking from side to side.

"So, will you help your aunt?" the father shouted.

“…cut napkins,” she purred.

- That's it! Returning to the kitchen, my father sat down on a chair and picked up a newspaper from the floor. - Not anyone, but I put her in her place!

* * *

Nevertheless, the next morning, before he could get his legs out of bed, he heard the deafening screams of a car horn, under which Marianne ran downstairs, lingered for a couple of seconds in the dining room, threw something into her mouth, hesitated at the bathroom door while she thought she would vomit her or not, and then she slammed the front door - and the rattletrap rattled along the pavement, carrying away a couple singing out of tune.

The father put his head in his hands.

“They screwed up with the napkins,” he muttered.

- What are you talking about? Mom asked.

“Duliz,” said the father. “I’ll stop by the Doolees early in the morning.

“The Doolees doesn't open until ten.

“Then I’ll lie still,” my father decided, and closed his eyelids.

All evening and seven more crazy evenings, the hanging bench on the open veranda played its squeaky song: back and forth, back and forth. The living room was occupied by my father: you could see how he puffed on a dime cigar with vindictive pleasure and the cherry light illuminated his inescapably tragic face. And on the veranda, a hanging bench creaked measuredly. Father was waiting for another creak. Outside, he heard some whispers, like the fluttering of a night moth, muffled laughter and sweet, insignificant words intended for delicate ears.

“On my veranda,” my father managed. "On my bench," he whispered to his cigar, looking into the light. - In my house. He waited for the next creak. - My God.

Going into the closet, he appeared on the dark veranda with a gleaming butter dish in his hands.

- Nothing, nothing. It is not necessary to get up. I won't interfere. It's just here and here.

He greased the squeaky joints. There was darkness - at least gouge out your eyes. He did not see Marianne, only smelled her. The scent of her perfume nearly knocked him into the rose bushes. He did not see her gentleman either.

“Good night,” he said.

Returning to the house, he sat down in the living room: the creak was gone. Only the beating of Marianne's heart reached his ears; or maybe it was the flutter of the wings of a night butterfly.

“Looks like a decent young man,” Mom said, appearing in the doorway with a kitchen towel and a washed plate in her hands.

"I hope so," his father whispered. “Otherwise I would have let them in, no matter how evening, on my veranda!”

“Indeed, so many days in a row,” my mother said. - If a girl so often meets a young man, then they are serious.

- Not otherwise than to propose to her, right today! A happy thought dawned on my father.

- It's too early. And besides, she's so young.

- So what? Father thought aloud. - It's not out of the question. Everything goes to that, by God.

Grandmother, sinking into an easy chair pushed into a corner, chuckled softly. It seemed as though the pages of an ancient tome were rustling.

- What's so funny? Father didn't understand.

"You'll see for yourself," said Grandma. - Directly tomorrow.

My father peered intently into the darkness, but my grandmother was dumb as a fish.

* * *

“So it’s like that,” my father said at breakfast, and looked at the scrambled eggs favorably, in a kindred way. - So, so: God is my witness, at night on the veranda whispers did not stop. What's his name there? Isaac? So: if I understand at least something, that night he proposed to Marianne; yes, no doubt!

“That would be nice,” Mom said. - Spring wedding. Only very much hastily.

“Listen,” said the father with a mouth full of logic, “Marianna is one of those girls who sleep and see how to jump out in marriage. We won't interfere with her, will we?

“As an exception, I must admit that you are right,” my mother said. “A legal marriage would be very helpful. Spring flowers, Marianne in her wedding dress - I saw a wonderful dress at Heidecker last week.

All eyes turned to the stairs, which Marianne was about to descend.

“Of course, I’m sorry,” Grandma rustled, looking up from a slice of dried bread. “Only if I were you, I would not be in a hurry to rejoice that Marianne managed to get away with it.

- Why?

- Yes, because.

- So how?

“It’s a pity to upset you,” grandmother whispered with a grin and shook her shrunken head caustically, “but while you, my dears, were thinking about how to marry Marianne, I did not take my eyes off her. For seven days in a row, this youngster drove up in a car and buzzed under the windows. It can be seen, an artist or a magician, not otherwise.

- Like this? Father didn't understand.

“Yes, that’s right,” Grandma said. “He’s either a young blond, or a lanky brunette, on Wednesday a dandy with a dark mustache, on Thursday he’s red and curly, on Friday he’s short, and he drove up in an old Chevy, not a Ford.”

Mother and father were dumbfounded, as if each had received a hammer in the area of the left ear.

Finally, the father, turning purple, shouted:

- What you're suggesting? You, a woman, calmly watched how these scoundrels ... and you ...

- And what did you sit out yourself? Grandma snapped. - You just want peace and quiet. If I had come into the light of day, I would have seen it with my own eyes, that's how I am. Only I kept quiet. Let it get mad. Now she has her time. Every woman has to go through this. It's hard, but no one has died from it yet. A new young man every day - what could be better if a girl lacks confidence!

- Oh, you ... You, you, you, You! Father gasped, his eyes flashed furiously and his neck puffed out, threatening to tear his collar.

He leaned back helplessly. Mom was numb.

- Good morning everyone! Marianne ran down the stairs and flopped into a chair.

Her father glared at her.

“It’s all you, you, you, you, you,” he repeated to his grandmother.

“Now I’ll scream and run down the street,” my father thought like a madman, “I’ll break the glass of the fire alarm, tear the lever down, and let the fire trucks rush with hoses. And when it starts snowing - this is not uncommon in spring - I will put Marianne out in the cold: let it cool down.

But he did neither the first nor the second. It was too hot in the dining room for the time of the year indicated by the wall calendar, and everyone moved to the open veranda, where it was cooler, while Marianne remained sitting over a glass of orange juice.

2 "That Old Black Magic" (1942) is a popular song by Harold Arlen and Johnny Mercer; performed by the Glen Miller Orchestra, Frank Sinatra, Ella Fitzgerald, Marilyn Monroe (in the movie Bus Stop) and many others.

Dec 14, 2016

Summer morning, summer night Ray Bradbury

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Title: Summer morning, summer night

About "Summer Morning, Summer Night" by Ray Bradbury

The book "Summer Morning, Summer Night" by the famous American writer Ray Bradbury is a continuation of his legendary novel "Dandelion Wine" and the story "Goodbye Summer!".

The book "Summer Morning, Summer Night", which Ray Bradbury released in 2007, sort of closes the cycle of the author's trilogy, in which Ray Bradbury shares memories of his difficult childhood.

The book "Summer Morning, Summer Night" is twenty-seven fascinating stories. The main geographical area where the action in the book is played out is the tiny fictional town of Greentown. These stories are dedicated to both Greentown itself and its inhabitants - Greentown residents. Greentown is an amazing city! Here, the intoxicating aroma of ripe apples can turn your head in earnest, summer never ends here, and first love ... it promises to become an eternal “song” of love between two lovers.

Interestingly, Ray Bradbury wrote some of the stories from the collection "Summer Morning, Summer Night" in the late 1940s - early 1950s. These stories are absolutely new - they are not repeated on the pages of the novel "Dandelion Wine" and the story "Summer, goodbye!". Thanks to this collection, the reader can fully appreciate the scope of the author's intention of Ray Bradbury.

Old man Bradbury would not have been one of the best writers of his time if he had not once again proved the wisdom of the people: beauty is in simplicity and uncomplicatedness. Reading stories is easy - they are laid-back, at first glance, completely unsophisticated. You will not find outright fantasy and formulaic fantasy here. Old Man Bradbury doesn't need such literary "techniques". For what? After all, he knows perfectly well that every day is magical in its own way, and every person is a beautiful planet. And Ray knows how to convey this in an accessible and understandable way on the pages of his books.

The collection is “impregnated” with the theme of love. The writer's characters are ironic and laid-back. They cheerfully talk about love, sometimes, “giving out” incredible thoughts like “Love has a bad effect on the vestibular apparatus,” said the father. - From this girls fall straight into the arms of men. I already know. I was almost crushed by one young lady, and I can say ... ”.

The subtle humor of the stories quickly lifts the mood and makes you sincerely laugh at the vicissitudes of life in Greentown.

On the pages of the end of the Bradber trilogy, one encounters: children with their spontaneity, old people with their conservative view of the world. And youth - thirsty and looking for endless love and pleasure. And the middle generation has traditionally “plunged” into its own problems and sees nothing further than its own nose. And they all think, act and interact with each other.

On our site about books, you can download the site for free without registration or read online the book "Summer Morning, Summer Night" by Ray Bradbury in epub, fb2, txt, rtf, pdf formats for iPad, iPhone, Android and Kindle. The book will give you a lot of pleasant moments and a real pleasure to read. You can buy the full version from our partner. Also, here you will find the latest news from the literary world, learn the biography of your favorite authors. For novice writers, there is a separate section with useful tips and tricks, interesting articles, thanks to which you can try your hand at writing.

Quotes from "Summer Morning, Summer Night" by Ray Bradbury

Girls, when they are in love, only seem stupid, because they do not hear anything at that time.

You will never know how this girl at some point suddenly becomes a trot. This is where the man gets caught.

Memory rewrites everything in its own way. Multiply by two, by three, or even by four.

The kiss is only the first note of the first measure. And then a symphony will go, but a cacophony can happen ...

He was only twenty, and with every woman who sat on the porch when he walked by, or waved from the bus, he had a failed romance.

It is a flower without aroma, - the old people noticed. - Today, many girls look like such flowers. Touch - and they are paper ...

You just need to grow up as a person who looks at the world with open eyes and is not deceived. In this case, even human treachery will seem funny, nothing more. When you understand that there is always a particle of evil in human nature, it will be easier for you to endure.

The mother was torn between two truths. After all, children have their own truth - inexperienced, one-dimensional, and she has her own, worldly, too naked, gloomy and all-encompassing to open it to cute, unintelligent creatures who, with bursting laughter, run in developing cotton dresses towards their ten-year-old world.

Some consciously choose this fate: they crave like crazy for the view outside the window to change every week, every month, every year, but with age they begin to realize that they are only collecting worthless roads and unnecessary cities, no more solid than movie scenery. , and see off with the eyes of mannequins that flicker in the shop windows outside the window of a slow night train.

He who ceased to be surprised, he ceased to love, and ceased to love - consider that you have no life, and whoever has no life, Douglas, my friend, consider that he has gone to the grave.

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