Ray Bradbury on writing. Ray Bradbury "Zen in the Art of Writing" Ray Bradbury The Joy of Writing Article Outline

Fervor. Passion. How rarely do you hear these words. How rare it is to find both in life and even in creativity. And yet, ask me any writer to name the most important thing in him as a writer, ask me to name what encourages him to give the material one form and not another and carries him where he wants to go, the answer will be: your ardor, your passion.

Each of you has your favorite writers, I have mine: Dickens, Mark Twain, Thomas Wolfe, Peacock, Bernard Shaw, Moliere, Ben Jonson, Wycherley, Sam Johnson. Poets: Gerard Manley Hopkins, Dylan Thomas, Pop. Artists: El Greco, Tintoretto. Composers: Mozart, Haydn, Ravel, Johann Strauss (!). Think about any of them, and you think about strong or weak, but infatuation, passion, thirst. Think of Shakespeare or Melville, for example, and you will think of wind, lightning, thunder. Everyone I named created with passion, some in large, others in small forms, some on limited canvases, others on unlimited ones. Children of the gods, they knew what the joy of creativity was, no matter how difficult it was at times to work and no matter what ailments their private lives, hidden from others, suffered. They passed on what was truly significant from what they created with their souls and hands further to us, and even now, for us, their creations are filled to the limit with animal strength and intellectual power. The creator's hatred and despair, when he tells us about them, are always colored by something very similar to love.

Take a closer look, for example, at the elongations in El Greco’s portraits; dare you say that work did not bring him joy?

The best jazz declares: “I will live forever; I don't believe in death."

The best sculpture, like the head of Nefertiti, repeats again and again: “She who is beautiful came here and stayed here forever.”

Each of those I named managed to grab a drop of this mercury, of life, froze it forever and, ignited with a creative flame, pointed at it and exclaimed: “Well, isn’t this good?” And that was good.

What does all this have to do with a writer's work on stories these days, you ask? Here's the thing: if you write without passion, without passion, without love, you are only half a writer. This means that you are constantly looking at the commercial market or listening to the opinions of the avant-garde elite and therefore cannot remain yourself. Moreover, you don’t know yourself. For above all, a writer must have a restless heart. The writer should be in a fever of excitement and delight. If this is not the case, let him work outside, picking peaches or digging ditches; God knows, these activities are healthier for your health.

How long ago did you write a story that showed your true love or true hatred? When was the last time you plucked up the courage to unleash a beast of prey onto the pages of your manuscript? What is the best and worst thing in your life, and when will you finally shout or whisper both?

Well, isn't it wonderful, for example, to throw down the copy of Harper's Bazaar that you leafed through in the dentist's waiting room, rush to your typewriter and attack with cheerful anger the stunningly stupid snobbery of this magazine? This is exactly what I did several years ago. I came across an issue where the Bazaar photographers, with their upside-down ideas about equality, again used someone, this time the inhabitants of the Puerto Rican slums, as a backdrop against which such emaciated-looking fashion models from the best salons of the country were photographed for even thinner half-women of high society. These pictures infuriated me so much that I rushed to the typewriter and in one sitting scribbled out “Sun and Shadow,” the story of an old Puerto Rican who, by standing in every frame and dropping his pants, ruins the Bazaar photographers’ work for a whole day.

Probably, some of you would not mind doing the same thing as me. I myself experienced this joy in full, the cleansing effect of my cries of delight and my own foal neighing. The editors of “Bazaar,” most likely, didn’t even know about the story, but many readers did, and they started pitting us against each other: “Come on, “Bazaar,” come on, Bradbury!” I'm not saying I won, but when I took off my gloves, there was blood on them.

When was the last time you, like me, wrote a story simply out of outrage?

When was the last time you were stopped by the police two steps from your home because you like to walk and maybe think at night? This happened to me quite often, and I got angry and wrote "Pedestrian", a story about a time about fifty years after us, when a person is arrested and taken for a psychiatric examination just because he wants to see reality not on television and breathe air that has not been through the air conditioner.

But enough about anger and irritation - what about love? What do you love most in the world? I'm talking about things, small or big. Maybe a tram, or a pair of tennis shoes? A long time ago, when we were children, these things were magical to us. Last year I published a story about a boy's last ride on a tram. The tram smells like summer thunderstorms and lightning, its seats seem to be overgrown with cool green moss, but it is doomed to give way to a more prosaic, less romantic-smelling bus. There was another story about a boy who wanted a new pair of tennis shoes because in them he could jump over rivers, houses and streets, and even over bushes, sidewalks and dogs. Antelopes and gazelles rushing across the African veldt in summer - that's what these shoes mean to him. They contain the energy of stormy rivers and thunderstorms; He absolutely needs them, these tennis shoes, he needs them more than anything else in the world.

And here is my recipe, it is very simple. What do you need most? What do you love and what do you hate? Think of someone similar to you, for example, who wants or doesn’t want something with all his heart. Let him get ready to run. Then let's start. And - following, not lagging behind a single step. Before you know it, your hero with his great love or hatred will carry you to the end of the story. The ardor of his passions (and there is ardor not only in love, but also in hatred) will ignite everything around him and raise the temperature of your typewriter by thirty degrees.

I address all this primarily to writers who have already mastered the craft, that is, have invested themselves with enough grammar and literary knowledge so as not to stumble while running. This advice, however, is also suitable for a beginner whose steps may be incorrect simply due to poor technique. Passion often helps even in such cases.

The story of any story should therefore read like a weather report: cold today, hot tomorrow. Set the house on fire this afternoon. Tomorrow, pour cold water of criticism on the still smoldering coals. Tomorrow there will be time to think, shred and rewrite, but today explode, fly into fragments in all directions, disintegrate into the smallest particles! The next six or seven drafts will be real torture. So why not enjoy the first in the hope that your joy will find others in the world who, reading this story, will also be lit by your flame?

When was the last time you read a book of poetry or, one evening, found time to write one or two essays? Have you read, for example, even one issue of Geriatrics, the journal of the American Geriatrics Society devoted to “the research and clinical study of diseases and physiological processes in the aged and aging”? Have you read, or even just seen, What's New, a magazine published in North Chicago by Abbott Laboratories? It contains articles such as “The Use of Tubocurarine for Caesarean Section” or “The Effect of Fenuron on Epilepsy,” but at the same time it contains poems by William Carlos Williams and Archibald MacLeish, stories by Clifton Fadiman and Lio Rosten, and is illustrated and designed by John Groth and Aaron Bourod , William Sharp, Russell Cowles. Ridiculous? May be. But ideas are scattered everywhere, like apples falling from a tree and disappearing into the grass, when there are no travelers who know how to see and feel beauty - well-mannered, terrifying or absurd.

Gerard Manley Hopkins said this:

Praise the creator for everything that is in apples,

For two-colored skies, like a spotted bull,

Behind the pink moles is a speckled trout;

For the newly fallen chestnuts that fell into the fire, for the wings of the finches;

Beyond the distance in the folds, in the plowed land, in the arable fields - beyond the earth's blossoms;

And all crafts with tools, implements, equipment;

Everything that is original, strange, rare, unusual,

Everything that is changeable is freckled (who knows why and how?),

Everything slow, fast, slowdsome sour, shiny and dull -

From one Father, whose beauty is forever unchangeable;

Thomas Wolfe swallowed the world and spewed out lava. Charles Dickens, having tasted the food from one table, exchanged it for another. Moliere, having tasted the company, turned to take the scalpel, and Pop and Shaw did the same. In the cosmos of literature, everywhere you look, the greats are immersed in love and hate. How is there room in your work for such old-fashioned things as hatred and love? If not, then how much joy passes you by! The joy of being angry and disappointed, the joy of loving and being loved, the joy of touching others and experiencing the thrill of this masquerade ball that carries us, circling, from the cradle to the grave. Life is short, suffering is endless, death is inevitable. But when you go on a trip, it might be worth taking with you these two balloons, one of which says "Fierce" and the other says "Passion." Making my way to the coffin with them, I still intend to spank the butt, pat the hair of a pretty girl, wave my hand to the boy who climbed the persimmon tree.

If anyone wants to join me, you are welcome - there is enough space on the road for everyone.

Ray Bradbury

The joy of writing

(Essay)

Take a closer look, for example, at the elongations in El Greco’s portraits; dare you say that work did not bring him joy?

The best jazz declares: “I will live forever; I don't believe in death."

The best sculpture, like the head of Nefertiti, repeats again and again: “She who is beautiful came here and stayed here forever.”

When was the last time you, like me, wrote a story simply out of outrage?

Gerard Manley Hopkins said this:

Praise the creator for everything that is in apples,

For two-colored skies, like a spotted bull,

Behind the pink moles is a speckled trout;

For the newly fallen chestnuts that fell into the fire, for the wings of the finches;

Beyond the distance in the folds, in the plowed land, in the arable fields - beyond the earth's blossoms;

And all crafts with tools, implements, equipment;

Everything that is original, strange, rare, unusual,

Everything that is changeable is freckled (who knows why and how?),

Everything slow, fast, slowdsome sour, shiny and dull -

From one Father, whose beauty is forever unchangeable;

If anyone wants to join me, you are welcome - there is enough space on the road for everyone.

Poems translated by Dorian Rottenberg.

| |

Fervor. Passion. How rarely do you hear these words.
How rare it is to find both in life and even in creativity.
And yet, ask me any writer to name the most important thing in him as
in the writer, ask him to name what motivates him to give the material
one form and not another and carries him where he wants to go, with the answer
he will have: your ardor, your passion.
Each of you has your favorite writers, I have mine: Dickens, Mark Twain,
Thomas Wolfe, Peacock, Bernard Shaw, Moliere, Ben Jonson, Wycherley, Sam Jonson.
Poets: Gerard Manley Hopkins, Dylan Thomas, Pop. Artists: El Greco,
Tintoretto. Composers: Mozart, Haydn, Ravel, Johann Strauss (!).
Think about any of them and you think about the strong or the weak,
but passion, passion, thirst. Think about Shakespeare, for example, or
Melville, and you will think about wind, lightning, thunder. Everyone I called
created with enthusiasm, some in large, others in small forms, some on canvas
limited, others - unlimited. Children of the gods, they knew what it was
the joy of creativity, no matter how difficult the work may be at times and no matter how
their private lives, hidden from others, did not suffer from illnesses.
They passed on what was truly significant from what their souls and hands created,
us, and even now, for us, their creations are filled to the limit with bestial
strength and intellectual power. The creator's hatred and despair when he gives us
talks about them, always colored by something very similar to love.
Take a closer look, for example, at the elongations in El Greco’s portraits; dare
Are you saying that work didn’t bring him joy? The best jazz says:
“I will live forever; I don't believe in death." Best sculpture, like a head
Nefertiti repeats again and again: “She who is beautiful came here and
stayed here forever.” Each of those I named managed to grab a drop
this mercury, life, froze it forever and, ignited with creative
flame, pointed at it and exclaimed: “Well, isn’t that good?” And this
it was nice.
You may ask what does all this have to do with the writer's work on
stories these days? Here's what: if you write without passion,
without burning, without love, you are only half a writer. It means,
that you are constantly looking at the commercial market or listening
to the opinion of the avant-garde elite and therefore cannot remain yourself.
Moreover, you don’t know yourself. For first of all, the writer must
be a restless heart. The writer should be in a fever of excitement and delight.
If this is not the case, let him work outside, pick peaches or dig
ditches; God knows, these activities are healthier for your health.
How long ago did you write a story where your sincere love is manifested?
or genuine hatred? When was the last time you had the courage
and released a beast of prey onto the pages of your manuscript? What's in your
the best and the worst of life, and when you finally shout both
or will you whisper? Well, wouldn't it be wonderful, for example, to throw a number on the table?
“Harper's Bazaar”, which you leafed through in the waiting room and dentist,
rush to his typewriter and, with cheerful anger, attack the amazing
the stupid snobbery of this magazine? This is exactly what I did several years ago.
I came across an issue where the “Bazaar” photographers, with their upside down
upside down ideas of equality, used someone again,
this time the inhabitants of the Puerto Rican slums, as scenery, against the backdrop
which are such emaciated-looking fashion models from the best salons in the country
photographed for the even thinner half-women of high society.
These pictures made me so furious that I rushed to the typewriter and
in one sitting I dashed off “Sun and Shadow,” a story about an old Puerto Rican,
who, standing in every frame and dropping his pants, drives photographers
“Bazaar” is no work all day long. Probably some of you would
wouldn't mind doing the same thing as me.
I myself experienced this joy in full, the cleansing effect
their cries of delight and their own foal
neighing. The editors of “Bazaar”, most likely, even about the story
didn’t find out, but many readers did, and they began to push
us foreheads: “Come on, “Bazaar”, come on, Bradbury!” I don't claim that I won
victory, but when I took off my gloves, there was blood on them. When's the last time
since you, like me, wrote a story simply out of indignation? When in
The last time you were stopped two steps from your house by the police
because you like to walk and maybe think at night?
This happened to me quite often and I got angry and wrote
“Pedestrian”, a story about times fifty years after us,
when a person is arrested and taken for a psychiatric examination
only because he wants to see reality not on TV
and breathe air that has not passed through the air conditioner. But enough about anger
and irritation - what about love? What do you love most in the world?
I'm talking about things, small or big. Maybe a tram or two
tennis shoes? A long time ago, when we were children, these things were
magical for us. Last year I published a story about how
the boy rides the tram for the last time. The tram smells like summer thunderstorms
and lightning, the seats in it seemed to be overgrown with cool green moss, but
it is doomed to give way to something more prosaic, less romantic
smelling bus. There was another story, about a boy who wanted
have a pair of new tennis shoes because he can jump in them
through rivers, houses and streets, and even through bushes, sidewalks and dogs. Antelope
and gazelles rushing across the African veldt in summer, that’s what it’s like for him
these shoes. They contain the energy of stormy rivers and thunderstorms; they, these tennis ones
he definitely needs shoes, he needs them more than anything else. And here's my recipe,
it's quite simple. What do you need most? What do you love and what do you hate?
Think of someone like you, for example, who wholeheartedly
wants or doesn't want something. Let him get ready to run. Then let's start.
And - following, not lagging behind a single step. You won’t even have time to look back, as your
the hero with his great love or hatred will carry you to the end of the story.
The ardor of his passions (and there is ardor not only in love, but also in hatred)
will ignite everything around him and raise the temperature by thirty degrees
your typewriter. I address all this primarily to writers,
who have already mastered the craft, that is, have invested themselves with enough grammar
and literary knowledge so as not to stumble while running. This advice, however,
also suitable for a beginner whose steps may be wrong simply because
bad technique.
Passion often helps even in such cases. The story of any story must
thus read like a weather report: cold today, tomorrow
hot. Set the house on fire this afternoon. Tomorrow pour out the cold one
water criticism on still smoldering coals. Tomorrow there will be time to think, chop and
rewrite, but today explode, fly into fragments in all directions,
disintegrate into tiny particles! The next six to seven drafts will be
real torture. So why not enjoy the first one in the hope that your
joy will find others in the world who, reading this story, will be kindled by your
flame too? It is not at all necessary that the flame be large. Quite
a small light, such as a burning candle, is enough: longing for
a magical machine, like a tram, or magical animals, like a couple
tennis shoes that hop like rabbits across the grass early in the morning.
Try to find small delights for yourself, look for small sorrows and give form to both. Taste them, give your typewriter a try too. When was the last time you read a book of poetry or, one evening, found time to write one or two essays? Have you read, for example, even one issue of Geriatrics, the journal of the American Geriatrics Society devoted to “the research and clinical study of diseases and physiological processes in the elderly and aging”? Have you read, or even just seen, “What's New,” the magazine published in North Chicago by Abbott Laboratories? It contains articles such as “The Use of Tubocurarine for Caesarean Section” or “The Effect of Fenuron on Epilepsy,” but at the same time it contains poems by William Carlos Williams and Archibald MacLeish, stories by Clifton Fadiman and Lio Rosten, and is illustrated and designed by John Groth and Aaron Bourod , William Sharp, Russell Cowles. Ridiculous? May be. But ideas are scattered everywhere, like apples falling from a tree and disappearing into the grass, when there are no travelers who know how to see and feel beauty - well-mannered, terrifying or absurd.
Gerard Manley Hopkins said this:
Praise the creator for everything that is in apples, For two-color skies like a bull
spotted, Behind pink moles speckled trout; For those who have fallen again,
chestnuts caught in the fire, caught in the wings of finches; Beyond the distance in the folds, in the plow,
in arable lands - for earthly flowers; And all crafts with tools, implements,
equipment; Everything that is original, strange, rare, unusual, Everything,
what is changeable, freckled (who knows why and how?), everything is slow,
quick, sweet and sour, brilliant and dull - From one Father, whose beauty
forever unchanged; Praise be to Him!
Thomas Wolfe swallowed the world and spewed out lava. Charles Dickens, having tasted the food with
one table, changed it to another. Moliere, having tasted society,
turned to take the scalpel, and Pop and Show did the same.
In the cosmos of literature, no matter where you look, the great ones have gone headlong into love and
hatred. And as in your work, there is still room in it for such
old-fashioned things like hate and love? If not, then how much joy
passes you by! The joy of being angry and disappointed, the joy of loving
and to be loved, the joy of touching others and the thrill of
this masquerade ball that carries us, circling, from the cradle to the grave.
Life is short, suffering is endless, death is inevitable. But, going
on the road, maybe you should take these two balloons with you,
one of which says Fervor, and the other says Passion. Committing
with them on my way to the coffin, I still intend to spank my ass,
pat a pretty girl's hair, wave to a boy,
climbed a persimmon tree. If anyone wants to join me, you're welcome.
Please, there is enough space on the road for everyone.

P yl. Passion. How rarely do you hear these words. How rare it is to find both in life and even in creativity. And yet, ask me any writer to name the most important thing in him as a writer, ask me to name what prompts him to give the material one form and not another and carries him where he wants to go, the answer will be: your ardor, your passion.

Each of you has your favorite writers, I have mine: Dickens, Mark Twain, Thomas Wolfe, Peacock, Bernard Shaw, Moliere, Ben Jonson, Wycherley, Sam Johnson. Poets: Gerard Manley Hopkins, Dylan Thomas, Pop. Artists: El Greco, Tintoretto. Composers: Mozart, Haydn, Ravel, Johann Strauss (!). Think about any of them, and you think about strong or weak, but enthusiasm, passion, thirst. Think of Shakespeare or Melville, for example, and you will think of wind, lightning, thunder. Everyone I named created with passion, some in large, others in small forms, some on limited canvases, others on unlimited ones. Children of the gods, they knew what the joy of creativity was, no matter how difficult it was at times to work and no matter what ailments their private lives, hidden from others, suffered. They passed on what was truly significant from what they created with their souls and hands further to us, and even now, for us, their creations are filled to the limit with animal strength and intellectual power. The creator's hatred and despair, when he tells us about them, are always colored by something very similar to love.

Take a closer look, for example, at the elongations in El Greco’s portraits; dare you say that work did not bring him joy?

The best jazz declares: "I will live forever; I don't believe in death."

The best sculpture, like the head of Nefertiti, repeats again and again: “She who is beautiful came here and stayed here forever.”

Well, isn't it wonderful, for example, to throw on the table the issue of Harper's Bazaar that you leafed through in the waiting room and the dentist, rush to your typewriter and attack with cheerful anger the stunningly stupid snobbery of this magazine? This is exactly what I did several years ago. I came across an issue where the Bazaar photographers, with their upside-down ideas about equality, again used someone, this time the inhabitants of the Puerto Rican slums, as a backdrop against which such emaciated-looking fashion models from the best salons of the country were photographed for even thinner half-women of high society. These pictures infuriated me so much that I rushed to the typewriter and in one sitting scribbled out “Sun and Shadow,” the story of an old Puerto Rican who, by standing in every frame and dropping his pants, ruins a whole day’s work for the Bazaar photographers.

When was the last time you, like me, wrote a story simply out of outrage?

The story of any story should therefore read like a weather report: cold today, hot tomorrow. Set the house on fire this afternoon. Tomorrow pour cold water of criticism on the still smoldering coals. Tomorrow there will be time to think, shred and rewrite, but today explode, fly into fragments in all directions, disintegrate into the smallest particles! The next six or seven drafts will be real torture. So why not enjoy the first in the hope that your joy will find others in the world who, reading this story, will also be lit by your flame?

It is not at all necessary that the flame be large. A small flame, like that of a burning candle, is enough: longing for a magical machine, like a tram, or for magical animals, like a pair of tennis shoes that hop like rabbits across the grass in the early morning. Try to find small delights for yourself, look for small sorrows and give form to both. Taste them, give your typewriter a try too. When was the last time you read a book of poetry or, one evening, found time to write one or two essays? Have you read, for example, even one issue of Geriatrics, the journal of the American Geriatrics Society devoted to the “research and clinical study of diseases and physiological processes in the aged and aging”? Have you read, or even just seen, What's New, a magazine published in North Chicago by Abbott Laboratories? It contains articles such as “The Use of Tubocurarine for Caesarean Section” or “The Effect of Fenuron on Epilepsy,” but at the same time it contains poems by William Carlos Williams and Archibald MacLeish, stories by Clifton Fadiman and Lio Rosten, and is illustrated and designed by John Groth and Aaron Bourod , William Sharp, Russell Cowles. Ridiculous? May be. But ideas are scattered everywhere, like apples falling from a tree and disappearing into the grass, when there are no travelers who know how to see and feel beauty - well-mannered, terrifying or absurd.

Gerard Manley Hopkins said this:

Praise be to the creator for everything that is in apples,
For two-colored skies, like a spotted bull,
Behind the pink moles is a mottled trout;
For the newly fallen chestnuts that fell into the fire, for the wings of the finches;
Beyond the distance in the folds, in the plowed land, in the arable fields - beyond the earth's blossoms;
And all crafts with tools, implements, equipment;
Everything that is original, strange, rare, unusual, Everything that is changeable, freckled (who knows why and why?), Everything slow, fast, sweet and sour, shiny and dull -
From one Father, whose beauty is forever unchangeable;
Praise be to Him!

[Poems translated by Dorian Rottenberg]

Thomas Wolfe swallowed the world and spewed out lava. Charles Dickens, having tasted the food from one table, exchanged it for another. Moliere, having tasted the company, turned to take the scalpel, and Pop and Shaw did the same. In the cosmos of literature, everywhere you look, the greats are immersed in love and hate. How is there room in your work for such old-fashioned things as hatred and love? If not, then how much joy passes you by! The joy of being angry and disappointed, the joy of loving and being loved, the joy of touching others and experiencing the thrill of this masquerade ball that carries us, circling, from the cradle to the grave. Life is short, suffering is endless, death is inevitable. But when you go on a trip, maybe it's worth taking with you these two balloons, one of which says Fervor, and the other says Passion. As I make my way to the coffin with them, I still intend to spank a little girl’s butt, pat a pretty girl’s hair, and wave my hand to a boy climbing a persimmon tree.

If anyone wants to join me, you are welcome - there is enough space on the road for everyone.

American science fiction writer Ray Bradbury died in Los Angeles on June 6, 2012 at the age of 92.. Without a doubt, we can say that an entire era passed away with him. Bradbury himself spoke about death like this:

“I don’t think about death, because I will always be here. This box with my films and shelves with my books convince me that I have a hundred or two years left.”

It is true that every writer has his own talent. Ray Bradbury, for example, had a unique memory. Here's how he talks about it himself: “ I have always had what I would call an “almost complete mental return” to the hour of birth. I remember cutting the umbilical cord, I remember sucking my mother’s breast for the first time. The nightmares that usually await a newborn are included in my mental cheat sheet from the very first weeks of life. I know, I know that this is impossible, most people don’t remember anything like this... But I saw, heard, knew..." He clearly remembers the first snowfall of his life. A later memory is about how, still three years old, his parents took him to the cinema for the first time. The acclaimed silent film “The Hunchback of Notre Dame” with Lon Chaney in the title role was on, and the image of the freak struck little Ray to the core.

Ray Bradbury formally completed his education at the high school level without ever attending college. Even as a child, Bradbury realized that he wanted to become a writer, and he seriously pursued only this one thing. In one of the interviews, to the question: “In At what age did you start writing?- he answers: " At twelve years old. I couldn't afford to buy Edgar Burroughs' sequel to The Martian Warrior because we were a poor family... so I wrote my own version".

Lacking other means of livelihood, the future classic worked as a newspaper delivery boy. He ran through the streets shouting "Breaking news!" for a good four years, while simultaneously inventing new stories, observing people, noticing vivid details. Here's what Ray Bradberry himself says about that period:

« In the high school where I studied, there was an anthology - students wrote short essays about themselves. There was nothing of mine there - I couldn’t put two words on paper.

So I graduated from school unskillful. I went out into the world as a helpless creature, knowing only one thing for sure: I want to be a writer.

And I got a job at a newsstand. And friends passed by and asked: “What are you doing here?” And I answered them: “ I'm becoming a writer".

“How can they become a writer standing here?”

That's how. Every morning when I woke up, I wrote a short story. And after work I didn’t go home, but to the library. I lived in the library. I was surrounded by the best lovers in the world - books.

Rudyard Kipling loved me. Charles Dickens loved me. H.G. Wells loved me. Jules Verne loved me.
These lovers changed my life. They looked at me straight. When you entered the library, you found yourself in an amazing atmosphere, you inhaled it, you swam in it. You became a writer, floating in the middle of the library. And vibrations passed through you. They remained in you forever.

I didn't think about how little I could do. I was so absorbed in the love of the books on the shelves that I simply had no time to think about my own imperfections.

After all, what is the power of love? Love makes you sound even after the music has ended.

That's why you need to constantly be in a state of falling in love with something. In my case - to the library, to books, to writing. Even if what you write yourself is terrible, you ruthlessly throw away what you have written and start with a clean sheet.

You see, I was twenty-two years old when I wrote my first decent story. I sat at the typewriter, and when I finished it, tears ran down my cheeks.”

In his early experiments he copied the bombastic Victorian prose style of Edgar Allan Poe until Henry Kuttner, one of the writers whom Bradbury besieged to show his work, told him: “ Write another story like that and I’ll kill you.”

Bradbury subsequently said: “ Jules Verne was my father. Wells - a wise uncle. Edgar Allan Poe was my cousin; he was like a bat - he always lived in our dark attic. Flash Gordon and Buck Rogers are my brothers and comrades. Here you have all my relatives. I will also add that my mother, in all likelihood, was Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, the creator of Frankenstein. Well, who else could I become if not a science fiction writer with such a family.»

In Ray Bradbury's office, the license plate "F-451" is nailed to the wall, despite the fact that he himself never got behind the wheel. The reason for this was that while still a little boy, Bradbury saw with his own eyes two terrible car accidents. During one of them, he found himself next to a wrecked car and met the eyes of a mutilated but still living woman. That day the boy fell ill from the experience. The terrible impression remained with the writer forever. But Ray Bradbury put absolutely all impressions, both good and bad, into his writing piggy bank:

“There is no fruitful formula by which science fiction, or any literature in general, is written. A real writer writes because he feels the need, necessity, thirst to write, because literature awakens in him the highest joy, passion, pleasure, delight - you name it it is what you want. He lives, or at least must live, by his passion, and passion is incompatible with formulas.

Here's a good example - my story "Pedestrian". When I went for a walk at night, I was often detained for walking. This infuriated me and I wrote a story about a future world where everyone who dares to walk through the city at night is declared a criminal."

Bradbury talks a lot about the process of writing in his essay “The Joy of Writing”:

“A writer should be feverish with excitement and delight. If this is not the case, let him work outdoors, pick peaches or dig ditches; God knows, these activities are healthier for health.

How long ago did you write a story that showed your true love or true hatred? When was the last time you plucked up the courage to unleash a beast of prey onto the pages of your manuscript? What is the best and worst thing in your life, and when will you finally shout or whisper both?

Well, isn't it wonderful, for example, to throw on the table the copy of Harper's Bazaar that you leafed through in the dentist's waiting room, rush to your typewriter and attack with cheerful anger the stunningly stupid snobbery of this magazine? This is exactly what I did several years ago. I came across an issue where the Bazaar photographers, with their upside-down ideas about equality, again used someone, this time the inhabitants of the Puerto Rican slums, as a backdrop against which such emaciated-looking fashion models from the best salons of the country were photographed for even thinner half-women of high society. These pictures infuriated me so much that I rushed to the typewriter and in one sitting scribbled out “Sun and Shadow,” the story of an old Puerto Rican who, by standing in every frame and dropping his pants, ruins a whole day’s work for the Bazaar photographers.
When was the last time you, like me, wrote a story simply out of outrage?

What do you love most in the world? I'm talking about things, small or big. Maybe a tram, or a pair of tennis shoes? A long time ago, when we were children, these things were magical to us. Last year I published a story about a boy's last ride on a tram. The tram smells like summer thunderstorms and lightning, its seats seem to be overgrown with cool green moss, but it is doomed to give way to a more prosaic, less romantic-smelling bus.