Bradbury, then, marked my introduction to literary analysis. That’s not entirely true; what is true is that Bradbury marked the beginning of my understanding that there was more to books than simply reading them. That I could engage the text, write in its margins, learn and feel from it, alter its meaning, steal from it and covet what I’d stolen. Still, I was mediocre at these things, too. When my teacher informed the class that we were to each rewrite the part in 451 in which Montag fails to outrun the Hound, which then injects a tranquilizer into him before he destroys it with a flamethrower and manages to hobble out of reach of pyromaniacal authorities, I used the assignment to turn Montag’s getaway into a melodramatic death scene complete with a defiant speech aimed at his pursuers. The only problem was the speech consisted of the lyrics to the song, “Drive” by Incubus and was nothing of my own creation. Regretfully, this choice was not a case of trying to take the easy way out of schoolwork. I was elated by the prospect of revisioning part of the first book that made me feel literature mattered in the world for more than the fun (as I saw it) of reading(1). My other elation came once I realized how perfectly Brandon Boyd’s lyrics fit into my revision. It was the first time I remember my writing coming together in such a satisfying way.
A few days after we turned in the assignment my teacher asked me to see him after class. I had been half expecting something like this since I turned in my work; he wanted to praise me for the impeccable, and seemingly effortless, job I did on his normally daunting writing assignment.
“Matt, I was really taken with what you wrote.”
“Thank you,” I said, trying hard not to care, unaware of the fact that if you’re trying hard not to care about anything, you must say, “Thanks” instead of, “Thank you” because the syllables in “Thank you” leave you vulnerable to placing telling emphasis on both words.
“Forgive me, but I have to ask this: Did you write Montag’s speech?”
“No,” (proudly and without hesitation). “I got the speech from one of my favorite songs.”
I sat back in my chair and politely waited for more praise.
He informed that I must immediately rewrite the assignment using only my own words. I was appalled, pleading my case of the lyrics being perfect and that anything I wrote in lieu of them would fail miserably by comparison(2). Like any good and patient teacher though, he quietly insisted.
It wasn’t until years later when I finally became aware of plagiarism and its rampant, (sometimes) intentional use and, as a result, the truth that a genuine love for reading and writing doesn’t exists in everyone. So I was angry with my teacher for not seeing how flawless my rewrite was, how poetic and sincere Montag became after speaking the lyrics. But I was a good student, always in want of my teachers’ acceptance, so I started work on the scene again.
Then something amazing happened. At the time, my grandma(3) lived in Lucerne Valley, a small(4) gathering of people (who staunchly oppose healthy, occasional migration) nestled deep within the dirt and cacti of the Mojave, and she had read in the local newspaper that Bradbury was going to make an appearance at the Lucerne Valley Library(5) the following Tuesday. The timing of Bradbury’s visit couldn’t have been planned any better. I knew what I had to do. The scenario was clear: I would go to Lucerne Valley, find the library, walk up to Mr. Bradbury, hand him my assignment, watch as he read it(6), and wait while he composed a damning letter to my teacher exempting me from the terrible redo. The more I thought about it the giddier I was. I begged my mom to let me skip school to go see the famous author of the book I was reading for class, but she refused. She was never an overly stern parent, but the subject of missing school, for any reason save a near-death illness like cancer, was out of the question. I think my mother’s odd subservience to the policies of a school district is an aspect of parenthood that is common ground trudged by most kids. Despite the excuse(7), there was no missing of school. Period. School was where we were sent to learn and to grow. It’s absurd and morally reprehensible to think a child’s development occurs anywhere else.
To be fair, my mother did make sure that my grandma, who was far removed from the oppressive confines of school district policies, remembered to get Bradbury to sign a book for me. And he did: the first page(8) of a sixth edition softcover copy of his short story collection, The Machines of Joy, once owned by a (thanks to an official looking stamp) Mr. Michael L. Herring, 7137 Fairfax Drive San Bernardino, CA. 924[the rest is blotted out by the all too inky edge of the stamp].
I felt closer to Bradbury after seeing his surprisingly legible signature in that book. I liked holding it and knowing he had held it. But for many years I also felt I had been shafted, especially since, my plan foiled, I still had to rewrite my teacher’s assignment. I’m not sure if I hold grudges, but I do know that if the memory of a specific event or person doesn’t settle well in my head, if its sediment is forever agitated, I remember it begrudgingly. And I remember being so angry with my mother for not letting me go to Lucerne Valley that Tuesday to see Bradbury. I remember being so angry with my grandma for getting to see him. I remember being even more angry with her, years later, when I found out all she’d ever read of Bradbury was the novel, Dandelion Wine, and she’d given it the lukewarm review of “fair.”
In 2008, all that anger dissipated, however, when I finally made it to the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books, held at UCLA at the time, and procured two tickets to Bradbury’s lecture on writing, at which I found him surprisingly vibrant and youthful. Before the lecture, I stood in a long line with my then girlfriend for a chance to meet the author. I had brought with me the very same copy of Fahrenheit 451 that I had read in high school with hopes he would sign it and unknowingly put an end to my saga involving absence on both our parts. But when my turn came, I walked up to the 86-year-old man, bound to a wheelchair and suffering with the complications of a stroke, and saw how hard it was for him to lift his hand to meet mine for a polite shake, I couldn’t bring myself to ask him to sign my book. Instead I settled for a picture, which you can see below. Note the French Commandeur Ordre des Arts et des Lettres medal around his neck; it was bestowed upon him in 2007, and he was so proud that he wore it to every subsequent public function he attended.
Like Steinbeck (and later, Salinger), Bradbury stays with me. Despite the innumerable throng of authors I’ve come in contact with since that blip in time as a naive high school senior, his voice remains one of the few that continues to sound true, clear, and warm in my mind. He was one of that rare breed of writer in search of answers to questions that were bigger than his generation’s capacity to comprehend them. He sought by way of an endless imagination that sparked with the electricity of youth and rebellion, an imagination that continues to mesmerize even after his vanishing.
Footnotes
1. In the summer after I graduated high school, I was in Switzerland - because of a friendship with a foreign exchange student that developed on the decayed tennis courts of our high school where he was the standout singles player and I was lucky enough to have a decent doubles partner - preparing to get drunk for the first time in my life. Because it was my first exposure to hard alcohol and language barriers, I was naturally nervous, mainly about overdrinking myself into an irrevocable stupor, so to calm myself before we started, I kept repeating to myself, "You're going to be okay. Just remember that Fahrenheit 451 is one of the greatest books ever written and you'll be okay." The first shots of kirsch were downed not long and somehow I relaxed a bit. My reminder to myself even worked later in the evening when, 12 or 13 shots into it, I was riding a bicycle over cobblestone streets yelling, "Yes, you're drunk at the moment, Matt, but you're in Swisserlin and you're be okay! Hey! What's the greatest book you've ever written? Fahrenheit 4. 5. 1. That's right! And who is the greatest writer ever written? Ray Bradbury. That's right, too!" And all was right with the world until I woke up the next morning, arms wrapped around the bottom of a wastebasket that I'll bet never weighed more than it did after I was through with it.
2. I often wonder how K-12 teachers, or K-12 teachers who haven't already, get through their workdays without laughing insanely in the face of at least one student.
3. No direct relation to the grandpa who introduced me to Of Mice and Men.
4. The Geographic Names Information System (GNIS), which is operated by the United States Geological Survey (USGS), lists Lucerne Valley as a "census designated place" rather than a city.
5. I've searched extensively for a reason as to why Bradbury would lecture, let alone know about a census designated place like Lucerne Valley, and the only plausible answer I can find involves his writing contributions to the 1953 film, It Came from Outer Space, which was partly filmed at Dead Man's Point in Lucerne Valley. I have no idea whether or not Bradbury was on set during filming.
6. I'd never been to an author's lecture before and had no notion of the goings on. I assumed he was just there to be gawked at so he'd have nothing better to do than read my work in the interim.
7. I still think I had a pretty damn good one.
8. In this particular book the first page is the "Praise" page, on which you will learn the strangely-worded fact that Bradbury "with Hemingway, is one of the very few writers whose fiction has ever been published in Life."
