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What's Love
Got to Do with It?
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The first evening I telephoned to interview Ray Bradbury his daughter,
Alexandra, answered. "Dad is out somewhere," she said.
And I wondered, when Ray Bradbury "is out somewhere," where
might that be?
After all, Alexandra's dad is a guy who has imagined human colonies on
Mars. He has warned us of a frighteningly real future in which firemen
burn books and mechanical hounds hunt down men by their DNA. He has shown
us our possible future, with our children so abandoned and absorbed in
a four-walled television reality that they think the scene they are watching
of lions devouring their parents is not real. He has also given us hilarious
waking dreams in which Laurel and Hardy come back to life to move a grand
piano down a staircase in the wee hours of the morning with satisfyingly
slapstick consequences.
"Should I email my questions to him?" I asked Alexandra.
"Dad doesn't do email," she said. "That's why I'm here
in Los Angeles. I come here once a month from my home in Arizona to do
the computer things because Dad won't use computers."
"Wait." I took a quick breath. "You mean, Ray Bradbury—one
of the most influential science fiction writers of all time—is a
Luddite?"
Alexandra laughed. "I guess you could say that. I tease him about
it. I call him Mr. Sci-Fi."
"Or maybe," I suggested, "Ray Bradbury is just so far ahead
of us that he's gone right by computers? Maybe we've got to catch up to
him?"
The second time I called, Ray Bradbury answered. Before we began the following
interview, he warned me, "Just start asking your questions. We'll
see where it all goes. If you start to get whiplash, put down the phone!"
When the interview ended, and Ray Bradbury had wished me well and hung
up his phone, I could not bring myself to hang up my phone. Was this the
whiplash he had warned me of? I was hearing the dial tone in my ear but
I was trying to name what I had just learned. Ray Bradbury had not taught
me anything I had not already learned, had not already been pounded into
my mind and heart by the accidents, both happy and hurting, of having
lived 47 years. It was more that—as great teachers will do—he
had made me see things as if for the first time, as if I were a child
again, squatting down to peer closely at galaxies of spiraling rainbows
on the oily surface of a dark puddle—and wondering.
I've got to ask you, how is it that one of the most influential and
respected of all science fiction writers doesn't use computers, or email,
or the technology that—
Computers are nerve-wracking! They make mistakes. I don't make mistakes.
I've been typing for 70 years. I have 7 typewriters. But computers are
too nervous. If you're not careful, if you just breathe on them, the goddamn
things make mistakes that I have to correct. I don’t want to spend
my time correcting a machine.
You've written how when you were a kid you wanted to be a magician,
then a carnival performer, and then at an early age, you settled on being
a writer. What do you want to be now?
Oh, God Almighty! I just want to go on being me! I'm on very good terms
with myself. I've had a wonderful life, a terrific life. I've done all
the things that I've wanted to do. When I was just out of high school
I couldn't do anything. I couldn't write a decent poem, I couldn't write
a short story, I couldn't write a play, I couldn't write an essay, I couldn't
write a screenplay. So one by one, over the years, by staying in love,
I became a poet, I became a short story writer, I became a novelist, I
became a screenwriter—but it was all love, you see? So I'm on very
good terms with myself. I behaved. I didn't treat myself poorly. I didn't
care about money. I didn't worry about alcohol, or drugs, or anything
like that. I lived a straight life, a good life, and all I want to do
now is continue doing what I've done.
An essential element of your science fiction is often imagining the
future and—
Well, no. Not really. I don't predict futures; that's not my business.
I've been more interested in preventing the future. A book like Fahrenheit
451 doesn't predict the future, it tries to prevent it, by indirectly
instructing us about human beings, and what they need.
Tell us something about how you work. In your book, Zen in the Art
of Writing, you talk about amassing a huge list of keywords or phrases
drawn from your life, your experiences, and then turning those starter
words into whatever story came out of you. Do you still work from that
list?
Yes, indirectly. What you do is this: You make up a title and write it
down and look at the title and say, "Why did I do that?" Because
you've got some secret information inside your head. All of us have many
levels of information that we don't think we have, because we haven't
tested them. So you have to teach yourself how to throw up! By putting
down a list of word associations or titles, you induce the subconscious
to reveal something you didn't know you had. That's the reason for writing
short stories: to discover what you know. Because there's a lot that you
don't know, unless you practice every day, to teach yourself to be impulsive,
to be passionate. Then all of a sudden you write a story and say, Oh my
god. I didn't know I had that in me!
Poetry is the same way. It's very mysterious. I don't know where poetry
comes from. It's very, very strange. All of a sudden you write a poem
that's complete, it's eight or 20 lines. It's all fresh, and all new,
and sometimes it's brilliant but it's always a surprise. Poetry is very
mysterious to me. You have to tickle your imagination, your subconscious,
and hope that it gives you a gift.
What are you working on?
A new book of short stories about dogs, to be published in late-December,
called The Dog in the Red Bandana. I'm putting together another book of
stories about my father, and I've written poetry about him, about his
experiences on the golf course. He was a great golfer. And I'm finishing
work on a book of essays called Bradbury Speaks: Too Soon for the Cave,
Too Far for the Stars, which will be out in late-summer. I'm revising
an old screenplay. And I'm writing 13 radio shows that will be directed
by Norman Corwin, who is one of the greatest director-producers in radio
in the history of our country. I fell in love with his work when I was
19. And it's wonderful that I'm now 84 and he's 94—and I'm working
with my hero!
I don't think anyone would call you a slacker.
No, it's just too much fun. I wrote two articles this week and a short
story. It just happened that way.
What are you reading these days?
Just reading what I love. I've been going back and rereading some of the
books of Joan Didion, the Californian writer. Her book of essays, Slouching
Toward Bethlehem, is brilliant. You ought to read it.
I'm going back through the short stories of Somerset Maugham. He's been
a big influence on my life. I'm rereading the plays of George Bernard
Shaw. I'm rereading the novels of [Thomas Love ] Peacock, because he was
a fantastic novelist. I'm reading a lot of stuff that's been around for
100 years or more. I tell people that if they haven't read Thomas Love
Peacock, they've missed one of the best writers of the last 200 years!
What makes you angry?
It makes me angry when people stop thinking. When they become part of
a true believing society. I hate political people. I don't like knee-jerk
Democrats or knee-jerk Republicans. I hate people who think politically,
which means they don't think at all. If you belong to a political party,
you stop thinking. I don't believe in playing politics. Just live your
life and see what happens. But you can't take your advice from communists
or fascists or Democrats or Republicans or Catholics or Baptists or anyone
who is a true believer. Go your own way.
Where would you go if you could travel in time?
I'd like to go to ancient Egypt. I'm fascinated by the pharaohs and the
history of the creation of the Valley of the Kings and of the pyramids.
That whole period of art history. Egyptian art is fantastically beautiful.
But on the other hand, the Italian Renaissance is very attractive to me.
To be in Florence, to be in Rome, during that period, it was terribly
political, it was terribly dangerous, but it was terribly beautiful at
the same time.
How has being a parent influenced you, your life, your work?
It's made me happy! That's the important thing. I have four daughters.
And I recommend to people, if you're going to have children, have four
daughters if you can. A lot of people don't realize how great children
can be. When you're young you don't think about it. When I first got married
I didn't think about having children. And all of a sudden, there they
are! It has been a frolic, it has been terrific. I've been a very active
parent, taking them to libraries, to movies. I educated them to Japanese
movies, for chrissakes! Every Saturday we'd see films by Kurosawa and
other great Japanese directors, which maybe is a very strange thing to
do with four daughters, but it was fun! I taught them the old films, and
the old children's books. We went to bookstores every week in our lives.
Every Saturday we'd visit at least 3 bookstores in Westwood and we knew
all the booksellers. It's been a grand adventure for me.
How do you see yourself? Are you a writer? An artist? A random collection
of stardust?
I'm a teacher. But I didn't know I was. I was down at the Los Angeles
City Council 2 years ago and they gave me a scroll and they applauded
me and I got to make a speech—but the most important thing happened
on the way out. As I was leaving, a middle-aged man from the audience
grabbed me by the elbow and said straight to my face, "Thank you
for changing my life!" And I realized in that moment that I was a
teacher.
I'm not a science fiction writer. I'm not a fantasy writer. I'm a teacher.
I didn't know that. But what do I teach? Being alive and loving being
alive. If you can pass that on to people, if you can inspire them to live
a great life and to have wonderful fun, then you're a good guy. You're
a really good guy.
You'll be giving a lecture in San Diego this month. Is this in your
role as a teacher?
I've been lecturing for 50 years. I love lecturing. I'm a hambone actor.
I fell in love with acting on the stage when in high school and I've never
gotten over it. But I'm a lousy actor in plays because I can't remember
the damn words. But the great thing about lecturing is you just get up
and explode! You have a ball and people, they go away happy, and you're
happy. So I will be down in San Diego to explode!
What is your most essential advice for writers and artists and other
creative misfits?
Fall in love and stay in love! Do what you want to do. If you don't know
who you are yet, you're too young, then go to the library and prowl around
the stacks and find writers who influence you, and you read everything
by them and you learn from them. Like Somerset Maugham; I fell in love
with his stuff when I was in high school. I fell in love with the short
stories of John Steinbeck, and he taught me a lot about writing short
stories. Then I began to fall in love with playwrights, and poets. Someone
like William Butler Yeats—if you read him every day of your life
for ten years or so, you're going to learn something about poetry, aren't
you?
All your loves are waiting to be discovered. So any young writer who comes
to me for advice I tell them, "For chrissakes! Find a love and follow
it! And never deviate from it. Be in love all of your life and you'll
have a great life."