On Tuesday, American writer Ray Bradbury died in his own house at 91. He was a classic of American and the world science fiction, even though the author of The Martian Chronicles and Dandelion Wine did not consider himself a fantasy writer. Actually he thought only one of his works belonged to the sci-fi genre, namely the Farenheit 451 novel. In Russia Bradbury's works were tremendously popular back in the days of the Soviet Union — they were published in large print-runs and adapted to screen by both filmmakers and cartoonists. Yet the author loved to joke that he did not make even a ruble by that popularity. Mr Bradbury acknowledged the influence of Tolstoy, Chekhov and Pushkin on his works while many Russian readers name his works among their most favorite ones and the writer still has a large Russian-speaking club of admirers.
Although Bradbury became a classic of world literature with all ensuing commercial consequences, he was rather modest in everything, having lived his entire life with one woman – Margaret Bradbury who bore him four children.
In his numerous interviews it was difficult for the 90-year-old writer to bypass the discussions of death, but he preferred to turn the latter into another theme for literary metaphor: “As for my tombstone, I'd like to reserve an old lamppost in case you wander in late at night to my burial place to tell me ‘Hello!’ And the lantern will be alight, twisting and entwining one secret with another forevermore. And if you call on me, please leave an apple for the ghosts.”
In his interview the writer discusses film, the future of literature, the writer's professionalism and the human race.
– Ray, do you always write about what you personally know or suspect might be, or do you sometimes have spontaneous ideas, plots, thoughts and words, after all?
– No, never, the writer, like an artist or scientist, should always write only about what he knows and understands or at least something he has some idea about or may guess... Writing something without the slightest idea of how to explain the things written to himself is no fantasy or mystique — this is sheer non-professionalism, an amateur approach and nothing else.
– What's your favorite film or probably the screen adaptation of your work?
– My favorite movie is A Clockwork Orange by Stanley Kubrick. I also like The Storm of the Century by Stephen King. I don't often watch TV and the last time I was at the cinema... was in 1990 or 1991. The screen devours the soul of any work, stripping the spectator of any field for mind games. It is not the heroes of a screen adaptation that look at you from the screen, but rather hollow-hearted actors whose task is to merge with the hero completely and thus eviscerate the author's idea.
– You have a rather peculiar perception of cinematography...
– I prefer silent cinema. My opinion is that the moment an actor starts talking, cinema turns into mass self-deception. When Jason or Heracles mumble something in English with a New York accent, how can you think of Homer? This is a mishap of our age, isn't it?
– Is the fact that books are available in dozens of other languages another mishap?
– Not at all: any translation is converted in the human mind and there is no emphasis on parochialism or Hollywood's crazy ideas in this case. Translations of books are a forced necessity, although it would be much more pleasant to read Petrarca in his native language, rather than trying to guess something through the translator's foggy lines.
– What's your vision of the future of literature?
– Somewhat somber but tolerable... (laughs)
– Concise and correct, to be sure, but could you please illuminate your point in more detail?
– I can. The literary world is being transformed. A multitude of works are written with the only purpose — making money out of one's pseudo-work's production. There isn't even the smack of literature left. Surely there are some persons of natural gifts, but the system does not allow them a sort of downbeat. Agents require that they should write something the readers would buy, producers offer millions for a screen adaptation of something that has nothing in common with what the authors write. Eventually the writers turn into a kind of bank checks, thoughtless machines collecting washington and franklin greenbacks. Buying a villa in California, the best cocaine, security guards, a bundle of yelling kids and the same number of baby-sitters is not what the real writer should seek. This is an evil-doing shell.
– Let's withdraw from the daily routine and pass over to the fantasy world. Do you think the Earth will be conquered?
– No.
– Maybe we'll conquer some other civilization?
– No.
– Pardon me, could you explain your double “no”?
– No once again, I'm kidding. You have a wrong approach... We could have been conquered if we'd of interest to any aliens. I personally don't see any opportunity for people inhabiting the Planet Earth to conquer anybody and I don't think aliens would be willing to tinker at perishable and unworthy creatures inhabiting this planet.
– How do you think will the human race end its existence?
– Beneath the surface: the human race will no longer be able to lead a wretched existence at the fateful moment, when our demands exceed the potential of our planet by a gross margin. Mankind has one awfully unpleasant and pernicious idiosyncrasy: the permanent drive for something greater. We can stop and reflect only to realize our next target. This will ruin you and me and all of us.
– When do you project the humankind will sink into oblivion?
– It will hold on for about the same time that we've lived from the would-be Nativity of Christ and will perish with the sadness of hopelessness on their lips.
Source: The Globalist
