A Survey of the Critical Scholarship

copyright © Lance Hawvermale

Critical response to Bradbury’s efforts can generally be divided into three distinct stages. The majority of the early criticism centers around his ambiguous role as a science-fiction writer and his manipulation of that science. A revival of Bradbury study in the 1980s found scholars more concerned with his style and use of metaphor. Finally, the most important level of critical review is that which focuses on one particular novel, Fahrenheit 451. This novel, more than any other, serves to propel Bradbury toward enshrinement in the American literary canon.

Before an exploration of the scholarship surrounding Ray Bradbury can be successfully commenced, there is one principle tenet of his writing that must be understood. It is this unspoken agent that is really the key to understanding the multifarious faces of Bradbury and his critics. As author George Edgar Slusser explains, “[Bradbury’s] stories are always anchored in a given soil and his characters in a particular past . . . beneath specific soils and pasts lie the soil, the past as he conceives them . . . his real task, simply stated, is that of the portraitist—the chronicler of lives in isolation” (Slusser 4-5). In other words, the dirt of Mars and the dirt of small-town Illinois are really extensions of the same human experience, echoes from some primeval turf beyond the memory of man. With this in mind, an examination of Bradbury scholarship can begin, from his pulp-fiction roots to his current position on the cusp of the literary canon.

Ironically, the very first review Bradbury ever received from a literary critic was the very one which launched his career as one of the foremost voices of fantasy and science fiction in America. Though Bradbury had already been regularly publishing in magazines for nine years, his first major review did not appear until his publication of The Martian Chronicles in 1950. (see note 1) After giving a copy of the book to a rather unimpressed editor of the popular Tomorrow magazine, Bradbury was startled later to receive a call from that very editor—one Christopher Isherwood—who blurted into the phone, “My God, what have you done? This is a beautiful book. I’m going to review it for Tomorrow” (Mogen 163). Among his glowing praises of Bradbury’s unique talent for prose, Isherwood also remarked in his review that Bradbury’s fascination with the future, unlike that of other science fiction writers, was focused on the aesthetic and symbolic aspects of technology rather than its mechanical application. In this simple observation, Isherwood unknowingly touched on what was to become the first of the contrasts in Bradbury criticism, the argument centering around his use of the genre of science fiction.

This contrast is really twofold. First, there is the debate concerning whether or not Bradbury is truly a writer of “science” fiction at all. Secondly, and embedded more deeply in his works, is Bradbury’s contrasting use of that science.

Is Ray Bradbury a writer of science fiction? Bradbury has the distinction of being one of the few writers in the genre who is simultaneously embraced and shunned by his peers. Even admirers of Bradbury’s work are often vexed by his seemingly reactionary views toward the technology his genre professes to uphold. The columnists in the Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, normally supportive of Bradbury’s contributions to the field, are nonetheless guilty of not always understanding him, complaining of his apparent “need to attack a science, a technology, and a civilization which he is unwilling to understand” (Boucher 95). This piece of criticism is guilty of the kind of gross myopia that would plague early Bradbury scholarship. The article refuses to see beneath the surface of the writer’s work, altogether avoiding any mention of his overall themes.

In another piece of early science-fiction criticism, author Sam Sackett praises Bradbury for helping to illuminate the then-infant genre when he says, “Ray Bradbury . . . has perhaps more chance than any other of escaping the stigma which attaches itself to the practitioners of the art” (Nolan, Review 34). Though supportive of the author’s prose, Sackett is also shortsighted, seeing only the science-fiction overtones and not the underlying importance of the symbolism. Early reviews such as this generally publicize Bradbury as the king of science fiction and credit him with the subsequent flowering of the genre. In contrast to the views of Sackett and others, however, hard-core science-fiction writers such as the staunch Edward Wood offer differing sentiments. In the maiden issue of the Journal of Science Fiction, Wood published, “The Case Against Ray Bradbury.” This article harshly—and probably jealously—criticizes Bradbury’s almost complete lack of scientific insight. To Wood, Bradbury seems contradictory to science fiction, a technophobe, an ardent anti-scientist. Edward Wood’s tangled accusations are uttered in a more coherent and less emotional manner by science-fiction-writer-turned-critic, Damon Knight, who obviously respects Bradbury’s creative style, but claims that Bradbury violates the basic premise of the field. According to scholar David Mogen, Knight applies Bradbury to the science-fiction definition of John W. Campbell, that being, “that good science fiction is based on knowledgeable scientific extrapolation and cannot be inconsistent with known science” (Mogen 19). Bradbury clearly violates this code. In fact, he seems to depend upon this violation. Mogen goes on to build a strong case for Bradbury when he explains how the writer mutates the Frankenstein myth into a universal call for wisdom toward the future. Technology, if not tempered with soul, invites disaster.

Mogen’s later articles continue this assessment of Bradbury literature. Mogen clearly admires the writer’s ability to contrast the values of the past with the sterile machines of the future. Though his arguments sometimes seem redundant, Mogen is certainly one of Bradbury’s strongest proponents, publishing several trenchant articles on Bradbury lore in the 1980s and delivering an effective if belated riposte to the earlier attacks of Knight and Wood.

Bradbury, then, is a writer of contrasts. He is heralded as one of the leading voices of the genre, and yet many writers of the genre still exclude him from their ranks. Even in the latter days of his career, Bradbury still finds himself in the middle of two distinct camps of critics. His predicament is best encapsulated in a comment by film scholar George Bluestone: “I think it’s an enormous contradiction to have both Star Wars and Fahrenheit 451, E.T. and Blade Runner co-existing on the same planet. And if contradiction . . . is a sign of humanity, then we’re still safe for a few more years” (Bluestone 19).

This is precisely the point that Bradbury was striving to make in his writings forty years before Bluestone ever made that telling comment. According to Bluestone, Bradbury intentionally writes a contrast, or paradox, into his science fiction. The technology exists in his writing not for its mechanical purpose, but rather as a symbol. Bradbury represents the icons of the genre—robots, rockets, and computers—not as mere devices but as metaphors for the human experience, extensions of the human soul. In other words, Bradbury introduces a kind of human godliness into his fiction. Bluestone’s rather simple comment is important because it represents the first deep thrust into the marrow of Bradbury’s work. This inevitably leads to a discussion of Bradbury’s use of theology, which critics such as Knight and Wood find contradictory to science fiction. Author C. S. Lewis was perhaps the first fantasy writer to transport religion into the realm of distant planets, and as science-fiction historian Sam Moskowitz asserts, “[Bradbury] provided the bridge between C.S. Lewis and the main body of science fiction in the magazines” (Moskowitz 408). Moskowitz clarifies what had for so long been a clouded issue. He effectively steers the Bradbury scholarship into the realm of man, God, and machine.

Literary critics Steven Dimeo and Harry Kuttner have both defended Bradbury’s coy use of theology in technology in such articles as, “Religion in Bradbury’s Science Fiction,” and “Ray Bradbury’s Themes.” Dimeo is not kind to Bradbury, accusing him of lapses into excessive homily, but nonetheless sifts through the narrative to find its moral core. In a discussion that sometimes borders on the abstruse, Dimeo draws comparisons between Bradbury’s major works and Greek mythology and anti-Nietzschean apostasy. Kuttner delivers a less recondite but equally incisive overview when he discusses the author’s use of simple faith in the battle between good and evil. This argument is also lightly treated by columnist Chad Oliver in the now-defunct Ray Bradbury Review, although his overstated observations contribute little to the overall Bradbury scholarship.

Bradbury himself underscored this bond between God and technology when he “described his following the first satellite across the night sky as ‘an absolutely religious experience’” (Davenport 44). Davenport’s significance in Bradbury scholarship lies in the fact that he helped introduce the writer to the city of Los Angeles. Though he had lived in the city for some time, Bradbury found it hard to establish a bond with the urban reader, especially when most of his stories were so grounded in the open spaces of the country. Davenport’s 1962 treatment of the writer in Los Angeles Magazine also brought him to the attention of Hollywood. Like Davenport, writer Maggie Savoy also supports Bradbury’s portrayal of machines as religious metaphors rather than merely mindless science-fiction window-dressing, reminding readers that Bradbury seizes upon the “evils” of technology in order to better arm humanity against the perils of its own blind pursuit of twentieth-century Manifest Destiny. Savoy’s article in the Times performs a considerable part in opening up a new avenue of Bradbury scholarship. Though it may not have seemed important at the time, Savoy’s line of thought would later be picked up by such noted critics as Gary K. Wolfe and Edward J. Gallager, each of whom is treated later in this survey.

Two other essays confront the subject of religion in Bradbury’s technological stories. Literary scholar John B. Rosenman uses a comparative format to identify the symbols of heaven and hell in the fiction of Bradbury and William Faulkner. Rosenman brings the issue of religion into focus when he points out the archetypal images of the divine and infernal in Dandelion Wine, while refusing to pass judgment upon the images themselves. This lets the reader know the symbols exist in the text without reviving the theology-technology debate. Thus the essay proves successful. A 1992 article by Loren Logsdon further sharpens this line of scholarship by studying the issue in the microcosmic world of a single short story. Logsdon cites “The Kilimanjaro Device” as the shrewdest, most direct reflection of Bradbury’s need to remedy the errors rendered on mankind by destiny. Logsdon’s assertions are subject to question only because of the limited quantity of his sampling; one short story does not a theory prove.

One particular piece of literary criticism that effectively identifies Bradbury’s role in the science-fiction community is Steven E. Kagle’s, “Homage to Melville: Ray Bradbury and the Nineteenth-Century American Romance.” Ardent disciples of sci-fi refuse to accept Bradbury into their rigidly defined circle, while the general readership, because of Bradbury’s rampant use of rockets and space travel, vehemently disagrees with this viewpoint. Kagle, however, acknowledges both arguments and adroitly builds a case for supporting both. Kagle focuses on Bradbury’s obvious admiration of nineteenth-century writers, particularly Poe and Melville, and underscores the evident parallels with Jules Verne, Nathaniel Hawthorne, and H. G. Wells. Kagle argues that Bradbury’s prose is performing the same functions as these earlier writers, with the single difference being the use of starships and faraway moons. Yet this advancement into distant space is really only natural, rather like a Manifest Destiny of the stars. As Kagle explains, “Bradbury chose Mars as the setting for his Martian Chronicles because he needed a world apart from our reality . . . in the nineteenth century, Melville set works . . . in largely unexplored regions of the Pacific; Poe set his “Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym” in the Antarctic” (Kagle 283). By the 1930s, though, readers had explored every conceivable corner of the globe. The next frontier for writers to explore was logically space. Kagle’s article is important because its implication of Manifest Destiny takes the next step toward bringing Bradbury criticism to a new level.

“The Frontier Myth in Ray Bradbury,” by Gary K. Wolfe, follows this aspect of Bradbury criticism first posited (perhaps unknowingly) by Maggie Savoy in her article in the Los Angeles Times. Wolfe contends, and rightfully so, that Bradbury is a science-fiction writer inasmuch as mankind’s next New World will be outer space. Bradbury is a writer of the human experience, and his exploration of the frontier myth finds man on the edge of discovery. This time humans make their way in rockets rather than covered wagons. The myth, however, remains the same, and Bradbury enters the realm of science fiction almost by default. Men will inevitably seek new worlds to conquer, taking their very human problems along for the ride, and as long as they avoid putting their machines before their souls, they’ll survive to see their children born among the stars. This is the theme which surfaces several times in The Martian Chronicles. Wolfe is the first critic to fully illuminate this vital component of Bradbury’s work, and he does so in such a way that, upon a second reading of the novel, his theory appears plainly evident.

Dr. Edward J. Gallagher’s deft treatment of the novel reveals the threads of this theme by pointing out the contrasting outcomes of American astronauts on fictional Mars. Sometimes man exerts himself, remains mindful of his machines, and summarily conquers the planet. Sometimes Mars conquers man. In fact, the entire nature of the novel is a warning to step lightly, keep a rein on the hubris of humankind, and proceed into the New World not like Cortez amongst the Aztecs, but rather with the mien of gracious and hopeful guests. The importance of Wolfe and Gallagher’s insights cannot be overemphasized. Both men delve into unexplored territory in their readings of Bradbury, elevating it to a new literary height by showing the diverse types of criticism that can be applied to it.

Author Eric S. Rabkin takes this idea one step further when he reminds the reader that Bradbury’s Mars is not only a reflection of the American West, but also an echo of fairy tales and make-believe. By analyzing The Martian Chronicles, Rabkin concludes that Mars—as depicted in the novel—is not so much a land of science fiction but one of fantasy, inside of which hides the ever-present theme of the American myth. In this aspect, Mars becomes an extension of man’s imagination, his desire to surpass his worldly limits and dwell for awhile in a land beyond the looking-glass, while at the same time adhering to the established tenets of the myth. Simply stated, this myth involves a contrast of the East (civilization, age, intellect) with the reckless frontier of the West (innocence, youth, passion, and the wilderness). The astronauts of The Chronicles assume the role of the American Adam, seeking out the fabled redemptive qualities of Mars. (see note 2) According to Rabkin, the novel represents an enlightening amalgam of frontier myth and fairly tale, set in a world accessible only by the tools of the future. By establishing such obvious contrasts in style, Bradbury builds a sort of kaleidoscope to which the reader might bend his eye to see the strange and nebulous colors of a different world. The magician’s trick, though, is that this world resides not in some distant place or time, but rather in the human heart. (see note 3) Rabkin’s analysis, though at times difficult to conceptualize and encumbered with allusions to myth and obscure fairy tales, nevertheless illustrates the power of The Martian Chronicles as a piece of American folklore.

With the introduction of articles such as these, Bradbury’s works become subject to new and varying forms of criticism. Though critical arguments at this time still centered around issues of science and religion and had not yet moved forward to more advanced topics, writers such as Wolfe, Gallagher, and Rabkin were at least approaching The Martian Chronicles from a new perspective, that of noted historian Frederick Jackson Turner, whose popular Turner Thesis still stands as the preeminent theory of the growth of democracy on the American frontier. Through a Turner interpretation, Bradbury’s Mars becomes a showcase for democracy, where its success usually depends on whether or not man has learned from his mistakes on earth. (see note 4)

Seeing this, it is no surprise that Mars itself soon became the centerpiece for much of the Bradbury debate. When Bradbury began writing, even the moon was still an intangible realm. The idea of landing a space craft on Mars was imponderable. (see note 5) Bradbury was thus free to design the topography of the planet as he desired, bound by no scientific restraints. And in its final construction, Mars closely resembles a certain small town in Illinois, implying man’s fundamental needs, hates, loves, and wars will not be altered by a mere change of venue. One of the basic assertions of Bradbury-Mars criticism, as stated by Joe Patrouch in his essay, “Symbolic Settings in Science Fiction,” is the simple fact that, “Like most of us, Bradbury seems to feel that the world was right when he was a kid learning about it, and that since then it has somehow gone wrong” (Patrouch 41). Patrouch’s ideas essentially set the groundwork for later criticism of The Martian Chronicles and by doing so become critical to any interpretation of the novel. Though Bradbury’s descriptions of Mars are scientifically impossible (as they were intended to be), he cleverly juxtaposes 1928 with 2010 to remind humanity that its soul is in the soil and not in the system. By connecting readers with the idyllic lands of Green Town, Illinois in 1928, Bradbury highlights the evils of rampant technology and the necessity of the plow. (see note 6) One is again reminded of George Slusser’s observation concerning Bradbury’s belief in humanity’s universal soil.

The classic article dealing with Bradbury’s love-hate relationship with technology, the one article that is consistently included in the footnotes of other essays, is that of Marvin E. Mengeling, “The Machineries of Joy and Despair: Bradbury’s Attitudes toward Science and Technology.” Mengeling’s article resonates with biographical references to Bradbury’s own life, providing readers with an insight into the author that better lets them grasp his feelings toward such devices as automobiles, telephones, and televisions. Though not as detailed as other essays on the subject, Mengeling offers a sound overview and even a little humor in his discussion. The article serves as a capable summary of Bradbury’s manipulation of technology.

The perils of this technology are amplified in a critical study by Kevin Hoskinson, who examines the Martian landscape as one gigantic warning about the dangers of the nuclear age. Hoskinson stands alone as they only writer to ever decrypt the novel as a product of the Cold War, reminding the reader that Bradbury wrote The Martian Chronicles during the early days of the Cold War struggle and citing passages from the novel that appear to be subtle reminders that extinction is frighteningly near; as several of the Mars adventurers come to learn, the technology of the atom allows mankind to act on its hatreds with unsurpassed savagery. Bradbury addresses this fear by creating a parallel Illinois on the red plains of Mars. Professor Slusser again phrased it best when he said, “Martian and Earthman alike shrink to the small town Midwesterner” (Slusser 55). Hoskinson’s essay is one of the most comprehensive in dealing with Bradbury’s struggles with warfare and integral to any bibliographical study of the writer’s works.

Though still wallowing in the space/science debate, Wayne L. Johnson nevertheless provides a succinct survey of Bradbury’s machines on the Martian frontier in a chapter of his book entitled, “Machineries of Joy and Sorrow.” Johnson individually examines rockets, time machines, and robots, as they appear in The Chronicles and other works. Each of these three devices becomes a symbol; again, Bradbury is using technology not for technology’s sake, but rather as a metaphor for human dreams, desires, and difficulties. In this respect, Bradbury is simply a mainstream writer, dissembling his themes in androids and asteroids. Johnson devotes another chapter entirely to Mars as it appears in dozens of Bradbury’s short stories. Johnson follows the progress of Bradbury’s conception of Mars, first influenced by speculative astronomy and the novels of Edgar Rice Burroughs and other writers, into the strange and wonderful Illinois-like place it was to become in Bradbury’s own fiction. Johnson’s work is effective because it tends toward analysis rather than critique. By breaking the Mars stories into individual components such as terrain and technology, Johnson is able to more easily compare them with the “nostalgia” stories appearing in Dandelion Wine. Upon further inspection, the similarities between the two works are evident. Bradbury’s fiction establishes a dichotomy between the old and new in order to instruct mankind how to live forever. Unlike the earlier critics, Johnson looks beyond the rather juvenile argument of Bradbury’s place in the genre of science fiction and instead helps to establish the author as something far greater. Bradbury is a synthesis of many genres, powerfully rendering the human needs common to all categories of fiction.

Bradbury criticism continued in this vein and reached its zenith in the early 1970s, as evidenced in William F. Nolan’s considerable treatment entitled, The Ray Bradbury Companion. Nolan’s work, though sometimes classified as a biography, actually contains very little biographic information, while focusing on the fiction itself. The Ray Bradbury Companion remains today the cornerstone of the works about the author, although a second volume is now needed to cover the years from 1975 to the present day. Nolan discusses each of Bradbury’s major efforts from his beginnings to the year 1975, including comments on criticism surrounding the piece as well as an annotated history of the work, along with holographs of first-draft pages and reproductions of rare publications. Nolan’s book adds an indespensible element to any survey of Bradbury criticism, as it allows one to follow the trail of the author’s inspiration in response to the changes in the world around him. It has been said that no one writes in a vacuum. Like all novelists, Bradbury’s ideas were shaped by the social and political occurrences of his era, and Nolan provides a look into this particular dynamic of the writing process. Nolan addresses all forms of media, from radio productions to audio recordings to comic strips.

By the time Nolan released his book in 1975, Bradbury had already published the vanguard of what is considered today his most critically important works, namely The Martian Chronicles, Fahrenheit 451, Dandelion Wine, and Something Wicked This Way Comes. The latter half of the decade saw the rise of the thriller genre in popular literature, and not coincidentally, Bradbury turned his efforts in fiction toward other projects. He wrote several plays, some of which were produced in Los Angeles and off-Broadway in New York. He worked on film scripts and published several books of poetry. (see note 7) During this time Bradbury criticism was generally held in abeyance, only to be tentatively revived in 1980 with the publishing of Martin Harry Greenberg and Joseph D. Olander’s Ray Bradbury, and then wholeheartedly resumed in 1985 after Bradbury released his detective novel, Death is a Lonely Business. Since then, Bradbury scholarship has reached new heights, with every aspect of his writing under close and sometimes painful examination by literary critics.

This examination often concerns the prose itself. Ray Bradbury possesses a prose style unlike any writer in the history of fiction. Delighting in unexpected word choice, subtle contrasts, and eloquent descriptive passages, Bradbury can set a mood or evoke an emotion more fluidly than any writer within the genre of science fiction or beyond. Whether they admire him or not, critics universally agree that Bradbury is, with respect to descriptive prose, peerless.

Unfortunately, not all of these critics find this description necessary to the greater story. In perhaps the single most telling essay ever written on the subject, author Kent Forrester admits that his own childhood fascination with Bradbury was dulled by later readings which revealed a heavy-handedness on description at the expense of plot and story. Forrester believes that Bradbury is in love with his ideas to the point where his characters often step away from the storyline to find a soapbox on which to harangue the reader. Though Forrester admits that Bradbury is a master of lush description and prose rhythms, he contends that Bradbury neglects revision and leaves unnecessary passages of borderline purple prose for a reader to sift through before he comes to the brunt of the story. Forrester’s attack is an important part of the ongoing scholarship because it represents the strongest voice of opposition to the style that made Bradbury famous. Forrester complains that Bradbury is so infatuated with his own prose that he attaches that prose to a scene whether it fits that scene or not. However, even Forrester cannot help but acknowledge what is plainly an inventive and successful writing style when he remarks, “Although [Bradbury’s] prose is occasionally overcooked it is still, in small chunks, superior to any other prose in science fiction . . . it is prose, like good poetry, that sticks in the mind” (Forrester 53).

A second source of strictly prose criticism comes from the unlikely source of popular novelist Stephen King. In his non-fiction work, Danse Macabre, King gives a tip of the hat to Bradbury as one of the progenitors of the horror genre. But at the same time, King admits that he finds Bradbury’s rhetorical excesses a bit oversweet. King primarily discusses Something Wicked This Way Comes, placing it where he believes it belongs among other allegorical horror novels. King, however, breaks no new ground in Bradbury criticism, as he futilely tries to understand the novel through the use of Nietzsche’s aesthetics. A better study of Bradbury’s matchless style is found in an article by Donald R. Burleson, Ph.D. By comparing a Bradbury short story to a story by Joyce Carol Oates, Burleson describes how both writers are able to center their prose around a single metaphor and paint that metaphor in such a way that its power permeates the entire work. Bradbury’s prose excesses, then, are not excesses at all, but rather dexterous descriptions of objects that, to certain characters in the story, border on the obsessive. By applying several different types of literary theory to the prose, Burleson demonstrates how Bradbury’s style holds up under the weight of acute investigation, thereby going a long way to establishing the writer as one of the foremost voices of the human condition in the twentieth century. Burleson’s essay becomes a substantial argument for Bradbury’s admission into the American literary canon. By this stage in the collective scholarship, Bradbury appears to be building steam, gaining momentum toward possible acceptance into the amorphous canon. His works have passed beyond the infant forms of genre/setting criticism and seem to be open to a deeper diagnosis.

Such a diagnosis is presented in a two-part essay by Willis E. McNelly and James Stupple entitled, “Two Views.” McNelly and Stupple focus on three tenets of Bradbury’s writing. They first observe that the ability to fantasize becomes, for Bradbury’s characters, the ability to survive. Secondly, metaphor resides not only in the story, but sometimes is the story. Finally, they describe Bradbury’s nostalgia as a “nostalgia for the future.” Each of these facts figures prominently in the continuing body of scholarship, each made more prominent through Bradbury’s effective narrative voice, or style.

As Bradbury’s style is truly his calling card, this aspect of his writing is responsible for the majority of scholarship surrounding him in this stage of critique. William F. Toupance approaches the subject from a unique perspective when he pursues the use of laughter and the concept of freedom in Something Wicked This Way Comes. Toupance focuses on the prose surrounding descriptions of laughter and freedom, and how the word choice deliberately inspires sentimental feelings in the reader. This observation becomes one of the mainstays in the scholarship. Bradbury uses fantastic description, often bordering on hyperbole, to appeal to the reader’s senses. His excesses are timed to jar the reader away from the ongoing storyline and make him remember his own past, his own feelings, his own tromps through wet grass as a boy. This stands as one of the primary concepts of Bradbury criticism. The author himself refers to his proclivity for prolonged descriptive passages as the “art of the aside.” It is almost as if Bradbury is taking the reader by the lapels, pulling him away from the plot for a moment, and asking him to recall the soil from his own childhood, and by doing so better immerse himself in the story. The charms of this excessive imagery lie in the authors unexpected assembly of words; his poetic inventions, to critics such as Toupance, are what enable him to transcend the confines of any single genre.

Sarah-Warner J. Pell pens a decisive commentary on this subject in her article, “Style is the Man: Imagery in Bradbury’s Fiction.” Pell reveals the gamut of Bradbury symbols and images, speculating on their hidden meaning and urging the reader to accept them as universal truths. Pell opines that Bradbury brought respectability to science fiction, and that his coy use of images actually permits him to transcend the restrictions of genre labels and take on a much larger role of American storyteller. Pell succeeds in bringing to light several of the author’s more subtle symbols, while at the same time showing how these symbols depend upon the poetry and rhythm of the prose.

At this point, the ongoing scholarship begins to reveal Bradbury’s dependence upon the metaphors of the nostalgic past. Nowhere is this more clearly evident than in the novel, Dandelion Wine, where the author returns to the summer world of Green Town, Illinois in the year 1928, using the people, dreams, and devices of that age as symbols for many universal needs. Marvin E. Mengeling of the Wisconsin State University best describes this in his article entitled, “Ray Bradbury’s Dandelion Wine: Themes, Sources, and Style.” The central metaphor for the novel is, of course, the making and subsequent bottling of wine pressed from dandelions picked on the first day of summer. This process becomes a metaphor for memory, for mankind’s need to return to childhood times when all of life’s riddles were hidden in the secret algebra of tennis shoes, slingshots, and first kisses. Mengeling spends most of his essay discussing the origins of the novel and its underlying motif. However, he also brings to light one very important and quite elusive fact concerning Bradbury’s nostalgic “asides.” Mengeling’s contribution to the body of scholarship is that he voices the true magician’s trick behind the prose: though Bradbury’s stories often depend upon images of the past, he uses those images only to reveal the mysteries of the future. By reaching backward, Bradbury hopes to propel humanity forward. Thus Green Town becomes necessary to Mars. They are, in fact, one in the same.

Bradbury achieves this effect in a variety of ways, including, as Morton I. Teicher points out, forays into the literary history of America. As an example, Teicher cites, “Forever and the Earth,” a short story set on Mars in which the 1920s author Thomas Wolfe takes on a central role. One of the characters in the story contends that Wolfe’s novel, Look Homeward Angel, is the only work with enough passion to equal the fantastic accomplishments of the twenty-third century. This story is only one of many examples of how Bradbury pays homage to the writers who came before him. Teicher indicates Bradbury hopes to better arm civilization for the struggles of the future by reminding him of the values intrinsic in the past. Though obviously more of a fan of Thomas Wolfe than Ray Bradbury, Teicher still details the underlying motive of “Forever and the Earth.,” revealing one of Bradbury’s tricks that had thus far been overlooked.

It is obvious to fans of Bradbury that the author adores the works of other writers, and his nostalgic sojourns often find him paying tribute to their efforts. Along the way he consistently refers to two of his other favorite symbols from the past: children, and the Gothic tradition. Children proliferate his writings, inhabiting the streets of Mars and hanging from the branches of Midwestern apple trees. Young boys, more so than girls, become symbols for many facets of life, as evidenced in Lahna Diskin’s essay, “Bradbury on Children.” Diskin reminds the reader that Bradbury’s children are, “agents who can transfigure and sometimes metamorphose persons, things, and events . . . apostles of enchantment” (Diskin 131). Though previous criticism has discussed children as metaphors and motive forces, none has dedicated as much thought and energy to the project as has Diskin. She appraises these metaphors for their value to particular stories and invites the reader to accept them as symbols for things that all men have left behind.

Hazel Pierce best represents the Gothic element in Bradbury’s fiction in her paper which traces the origins of the writer’s darker, more macabre imagery. Pierce asserts that Bradbury’s prose lends itself to a Gothic setting, as it easily invokes the fantastic visions necessary to a solid piece of Gothic literature. By concentrating on the roots of Bradbury’s Gothic inclinations, Pierce is able to place him amongst the ranks of Poe and Lovecraft, once again demonstrating the writer’s ability to cross the lines of genre without compromising his themes. In the entire scope of Bradbury scholarship, Pierce’s effort is the only critical attempt to analyze the writer’s prose through a Gothic lens.

As Bradbury begins to assume the mantle of a “legitimate” author, critical response has become more penetrating and often more pedantic. The final three essays in this stage of the scholarship, although natural extensions of their predecessors, are progressively more insightful and significant, while at the same time less accessible to the lay reader.

In her English Journal article, Anita T. Sullivan poses as her central contention the rather complex notion that, “Bradbury did not cease to be a teacher when he stopped writing science fiction, but he did place a moratorium upon the more evangelistic kind of moralizing which he was practicing” (Sullivan 1314). Such a statement is an obvious departure from the simple theme debates of the 1960s and ‘70s. Although Sullivan overly complicates certain issues, her overall thesis is sound: Bradbury emerges from the shadow of the science-fiction genre and through the use of metaphor expands upon the ethical roots which thrive in his unspoken idea of a universal soil. In effect, Sullivan reiterates George Slusser’s earlier observation, bringing this aspect of the scholarship full circle. With the publishing of this article, Bradbury criticism becomes an identifiable and substantial body which contributes to literary criticism on the larger scale.

Bradbury transcends the regional boxes in which earlier critics had sought to confine him. Thomas P. Linkfield successfully removes the label of “escapist literature” from Bradbury’s stories with his paper dealing with content and theme. Linkfield stresses the fact that, although Bradbury’s prose style lulls one into a sense of nostalgia, the intention of that prose is to bring the reader to a place where he can identify with his fellow man. Again, by looking backwards, Bradbury the magician somehow transports the reader forward, better preparing them for the troubles of the days to come. The trick is nearly invisible in the text itself, but Linkfield’s close reading and accurate inventory of the metaphors makes Bradbury’s intention obvious. Furthermore, Linkfield establishes a base for future critics by ruminating upon other possible aspects of literary interpretation.

One such aspect can be found in Peter Stockwell’s scientific study entitled, “Language, Knowledge, and the Stylistics of Science Fiction,” in which a single Bradbury short story becomes the object of an intense, intellectualist literary dissection. Stockwell’s esoteric study is truly the culmination of all earlier attempts to analyze the mechanics of Bradbury’s style. In Stockwell’s own words, his paper follows a “model of language function” to differentiate between “features of textuality and design” in Bradbury’s short story, “The Night” (Stockwell 103). Though by the article’s end it is evident that Stockwell considers Bradbury’s work the intellectual equivalent of any other writer in the canon, Stockwell’s consistent allusions to the theses of established literary theorists are at times confusing and distracting to the uninitiated. Stockwell refers to the work of economists, historians, even physicists as he attempts to construct a model against which “The Night” might be measured. In fact, it is not until the latter half of the essay that he actually moves on to direct criticism of the story. Be that as it may, Stockwell provides an entirely alternate view into the prose and thematic structure of the typical Bradbury story, following the classic scientific method to scrutinize the merits, strengths, and shortcomings of the prose style. A capable literary analyst, Stockwell advances the scholarship fully into the realm of serious university study.

Beyond these three important articles, all that remains to complete a comprehensive overview of the subject is to examine the comments concerning a single novel. The third and final stage of Bradbury criticism surrounds his most controversial and dramatic work, which he allegedly composed in nine days on a coin-operated Underwood in the dark confines of a library basement. Humble beginnings, indeed, for a piece of writing that would generate such a wealth of criticism.

451 degrees Fahrenheit is the temperature at which book paper burns. If The Martian Chronicles established Bradbury as a writer of popular fiction and earned him a broad base of readership around the world, Fahrenheit 451 thrust him full-force into the critical forum, eliciting provocative and colorful responses. Any examination of scholarship concerning Fahrenheit 451 is best viewed chronologically, as the novel’s driving force—the concept of censorship—has changed dramatically during the decades since the work was published in 1953.

For several years after the novel’s release, critics avoided discussing its themes on the grounds that its topic was too controversial for the times. The idea and practice of censorship were accepted facts of the McCarthy era, and most critics looked elsewhere for material. It wasn’t until the 1960s and the emergence of a liberal age that writers began to seriously examine the novel and exploit its acrimonious views on censorship. Writer Kingsley Amis boldly claims that Fahrenheit 451 is even superior in conciseness and objectivity to Orwell’s acclaimed 1984 (Amis 109). Several other critics follow Amis’ example, leading to a virtual deluge of essays concerning the novel. Fahrenheit 451 now stands as Bradbury’s best claim to the ranks of the American literary canon.

The first incarnation of Fahrenheit 451 in the field of critical studies is in the form of a classic work of dystopia. Writing in 1966, Mark R. Hillegas labels the novel as an archetype for the anti-utopia. Fahrenheit 451, Hillegas believes, lays the foundation for such dystopian novels as Canticle for Leibowitz and A Clockwork Orange. In an anti-utopian novel, the protagonist, caught up in a world gone bad with technology and passive obedience, must struggle to avoid being destroyed by the very machines that have supposedly set him free. In the opening paragraph of Bradbury’s novel, the world revealed is one in which man contentedly refuses to acknowledge the consequences of his creations. Both Amis and Hillegas critically establish Fahrenheit 451 as an integral part of dystopian literature. Their writings, then, become important not only to students of the sub-genre of anti-utopias, but also to disciples of Bradbury and supporters of free speech.

Criticism begins penetrating deeper into the webwork of the novel in the early 1970s, focusing on specific themes and symbols. In his essay entitled, “Hearth or Salamander: Uses of Fire in Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451,” Donald J. Watt specifically addresses the metaphor of fire. He concludes that fire, as it appears in the novel, serves a dual purpose: “it can burn or warm, annihilate or inspire” (Watt 13). The appearances of fire are numerous, its manifestations sometimes subtle, sometimes severe, and always contrasting. Once again, Bradbury establishes a contrast to prove his point in metaphor. Although his article is a scant two pages in length, Watt systematically lists the manifestations of fire in the novel, and by doing so reveals a new depth of existing symbolism. Though many of his examples lack a cogent explanation, Watt manages to prove his point. He concludes his paper with a discussion of fire as a timeless literary symbol which, at the novel’s conclusion, offers hope for a better civilization beyond the reach of the totalitarian government.

David N. Samuelson dismisses the novel six years later as “an incoherent polemic against book-burning” (Samuelson 78), but Watt successfully parries this attack in his 1980 essay entitled, “Burning Bright: Fahrenheit 451 as Symbolic Dystopia.” This time, Watt contends that Bradbury’s novel succeeds where others fail because of the multiple portrayals of its central motif, as well as it poetic language. Bradbury is able to relate a tale of destruction with elegant prose, thereby heightening the overall tension of the novel with internal contrast. It can be argued that Samuelson gives the novel an unfair treatment, overlooking many of its virtues by comparing it with other dystopia novels. Watt’s essay reflects a deeper reading of the novel.

British novelist George Orwell was, of course, the feast of literary circles in 1984. Amongst the slew of essays on Orwell’s work, Peter Rønnov-Jessen’s paper in which he examines the emblems of resistance in 1984 and Fahrenheit 451 still stands as one of the most lucid comparisons between the two works of dystopia. Rønnov-Jessen defines the dystopian novel as, “an extrapolation into an imagined future of certain contemporary trends” (Rønnov-Jessen 59). He points out that in 1984, a British novel, the population is kept in line by way of sexual, economic, and physical privation, while in Fahrenheit 451, an American dystopia, the people are “dulled through consumption” (Rønnov-Jessen 62). And when the respective cultures are examined today, it is easy to see how a little bit of radical extrapolation could lead one to the dark conclusions of the novels. The Americans of Bradbury’s future are not controlled by sexual laws, because Americans have been historically far more liberal with their displays of sex than the “staunch” people of England. Rønnov-Jessen’s observation is a clever one. In Fahrenheit 451, the political structure wasn’t created from the top down, but rather started at the bottom, with the people, who became so dependent upon their convenient technology and so enamored of their televisions that rigid censorship of the printed word was the only natural result. Rønnov-Jessen’s article is among the most insightful of the dystopia criticisms, due to the comparisons he draws with the English novel, 1984, and the social attitudes of the American people.

Science-fiction demigod Isaac Asmiov once categorized three types of science fiction. (see note 8) Of these, Fahrenheit 451 falls into the third division, that of social science fiction, where the narrative’s principle emphasis is placed on societal effects on the individual. Junior-high English teacher Wade E. Reynolds uses this as one of his arguments when he tries to persuade fellow teachers to adopt the novel as part of their reading curriculum. Published in the Virginia English Bulletin, Reynolds’ essay challenges English instructors to look at science fiction as a means to social change. As Reynolds writes, “Science fiction today is an excellent means for pinpointing and identifying the potential hazards that may face us in the future” (Reynolds 19). Fahrenheit 451 is, “an excellent means for testing or exploring possible future solutions . . . science fiction is a literature of ideas” (Reynolds 19). If the dramatic obstacle in the novel is censorship, what can be done today to ensure that such a future never comes to be? Reynolds believes that Fahrenheit 451 can generate ideas in the minds of its students, while at the same time showing them the dangers of censorship and the glory of books. Reynold’s article clearly demonstrates how Bradbury’s novel still has impact on the lives of today’s readers.

Fahrenheit 451 continued to generate criticism in the 1990s. Susan Spencer maintains the comparative efforts of Rønnov-Jessen when she investigates the role of literate and oral society in Fahrenheit 451 and Walter M. Miller’s A Canticle for Leibowitz. Rather than focusing on the censorship itself, Spencer uses a long line of allusions to the tradition of classic Greek oral exchange in order to prove the validity of books, literature, and words in general. Spencer’s viewpoint differs from that of her predecessors because of its optimistic conclusion that, by the novel’s end, man will survive and his oral culture continue through the generations.

While Spencer examines theme and content, Rafeeq O. McGiveron attends to one of the novel’s central stylistic devices, the portrayal of the human hand. McGiveron astutely notes that Bradbury uses the imagery of hands as reflectors of the conscience. McGiveron cites no less than a dozen instances where the hand is portrayed in such a way as to delineate character and moral stance. McGiveron’s article is integral to Bradbury theory because symbols are an inseparable part of the writer’s scheme.

McGiveron himself plays a vital role in the studies of the novel, contributing three separate articles on the subject. His second paper deals strictly with the decline of thought in Bradbury’s anti-utopian world. McGiveron perceptively points out that the novel’s censorship was not implemented from the government down, but came about due to the indifference and thoughtlessness of the general populace. McGiveron illustrates the “warning factor” of the book. More importantly, McGiveron mentions the similar work of other critics, namely Mogen, Watt, and Amis, and adequately builds upon their earlier foundation. This article serves as another example of more enlightened reading of the novel.

McGiveron continues his efforts to unravel the mysteries of the book in his article dealing with the symbol of the wilderness, which he rightly claims has either been overlooked or oversimplified by critics before him. Focusing on a single passage in the book which mentions the Greek mythological figure of Antaeus, McGiveron embarks on a quest to prove the necessity of Bradbury’s fabled soil. (see note 9) McGiveron is the first student of Bradbury to imply that this “soil” is humanity as a whole. Once again, by reaching backward and reconnecting with the past, Bradbury connects mankind to the future. McGiveron demonstrates this with clarity.

The most recent essay to treat Fahrenheit 451 is a 1992 article by Professor Diane S. Wood which explores the novel’s concept of self-imposed exile. Writing for Texas Tech University’s massive Studies in Comparative Literature project, Wood falls back on the twice-tested comparative format to find parallels between Bradbury and Margaret Atwood, author of The Handmaid’s Tale. According to Wood, Fahrenheit 451 examines, “the personal response of an individual who is in conflict with the majority in his society and whose occupation is abhorrent to him” (Wood 132). Here, Wood embarks on a road of Bradbury criticism which has not yet been traveled by students of his literature. Wood contributes to the body of scholarship by offering a new interpretation of the novel, defining it less as a dystopia and more of a book of logical exile. In this respect, Wood’s paper is a seminal force in the field.

Considering these examples, it is easy to see how Bradbury’s contrasting use of technology/religion and style/theme provide the basis for criticism surrounding his works and often become the points of division between literary scholars. In essence, critics build their cases for or against the writer in one of three stages—science debates, prose analysis, and the Fahrenheit 451 forum—as outlined above. However, no review of Bradbury scholarship would be complete without mentioning two authoritative essays that truly take the final steps toward catapulting the author into the hallowed halls of the American literary canon.

“Ray Bradbury: Hope in a Doubtful Age,” by Calvin Miller, encapsulates all the earlier criticism and cuts to the heart of what makes Bradbury an important and lasting author. Bradbury offers optimism, and through all of his symbols and imagery, in the midst of his descriptive asides and rhythmic prose, he constantly reminds his readers of their potential. Miller claims that Bradbury is an unflagging keeper of the faith, and in so doing reminds other critics that all of the writer’s themes are really linked in a single word: hope. Miller’s prominence stems from the fact that he bridges all criticism before him. Miller himself is both a Christian minister and a science-fiction novelist, and he draws upon both experiences in his life to give a broad and insightful overview of Bradbury’s hopeful outlook on the future.

Finally, if Bradbury needed one more voice to speak on his behalf for inclusion in the literary canon, that voice is provided by Professor Jonathan Eller of Indiana University. Although Eller focuses solely on The Martian Chronicles, he does so in a way that no other critic before him has attempted. Eller’s 35-page thesis centers around the entire creative process of The Chronicles, tracing themes and narrative development, symbolic trends and the meter of the prose. Eller, then, is the fulfillment of all of the scholarship that came before him. The conclusions of earlier critics have been extrapolated and compounded to form a coherent and exhaustive theory of Bradbury’s literature. Eller treats The Martian Chronicles as equally representative of the American myth as The Grapes of Wrath or Huckleberry Finn. By following the first drafts of the novel through its final form, Eller systematically addresses the formulation of the novel’s symbols and style, assessing it to be a work on par with anything in the field of American storytelling. Eller offers the final invitation for Bradbury to accept his rightful place in the literary canon.

Though Bradbury continues to generate critical responses today, the full force of his impact will probably not be felt until he passes on, leaving behind a legacy that will doubtlessly inspire a plethora of posthumous criticism.

Notes  

1. Bradbury’s resume of pre-novel publications include appearances in such magazines and “slicks” as Collier’s, Charm, Mademoiselle, Maclean’s, and Esquire. He has since been published in over 300 different periodicals.  -return to text-

2. The American Adam is a theory of democratic history espoused by R. W. B Lewis in his work, The American Adam. -return to text-

3. As an aside, it is interesting to note that Bradbury, though over 80 years old, has never possessed a driver’s license or driven a car. Furthermore, he is an outspoken detractor of the Internet, not because of his supposed technophobic tendencies, but rather because he believes it diminishes the experience of being human. Bradbury would ask, why do we want to communicate with people on the other side of the world when we don’t even care to speak with the neighbor across the street? The ultimate battle will not depend upon our application of mass media, but rather on our ability to share the experiences of the family next door. -return to text-

4. For a further discussion, see The Turner Thesis: Concerning the Role of the Frontier in American History, George Rogers Taylor, editor.-return to text-

5. A humorous anecdote concerning Bradbury and the moon landing: Ten years before Armstrong ever set foot on lunar shores, Bradbury was attending a party where, when he prophesied the event, he was all but laughed out of the room. Always the visionary, Bradbury was careful to remember the names of those present at the gathering, and when his prediction was later realized, he went straight for the phone. He allegedly called each and every one of his detractors from a hotel room in Paris, saying simply, “I told you so, you son of a bitch,” and then promptly hung up.-return to text-

6. Bradbury’s exact words in The Chronicles are the most revealing: “Life on Earth never settled down to doing anything very good. Science ran too far ahead of us too quickly, and the people got lost in a mechanical wilderness, like children making over pretty things, gadgets, helicopters, rockets; emphasizing machines instead of how to run machines” (177).-return to text-

7. Including Pillar of Fire and Other Plays (1975), The Wonderful Ice Cream Suit (1972), and When Elephants Last in the Dooryard Bloomed (1977). -return to text-

8. Essentially, Asimov believes all science fiction is either sci-fi of events, sci-fi of technology, or sci-fi of individuals.-return to text-

9. Antaeus was a wrestler of preternatural strength. As long as his feet touched the earth, he was impossibly strong. To defeat him, Hercules held him in the air, then easily vanquished him. Rootless, separated from the soil, Antaeus had no power.

Bibliography

Over 50 sources were used to compile this survey of scholarship. The complete list of Works Cited is available as a Word document here.