The Jar. Рассказ Рэя Брэдбери

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It was one of those things they keep in a jar in the tent of a sideshow on the outskirts of a little, drowsy town. One of those pale things drifting in alcohol plasma, forever dreaming and circling, with its peeled, dead eyes staring out at you and never seeing you. It went with the noiselessness of late night, and only the crickets chirping, the frogs sobbing off in the moist swampland. One of those things in a big jar that makes your stomach jump as it does when you see a preserved arm in a laboratory vat.

Charlie stared back at it for a long time.

A long time, his big, raw hands, hairy on the roofs of them, clenching the rope that kept back curious people. He had paid his dime and now he stared.

It was getting late. The merry-go-round drowsed down to a lazy mechanical tinkle. Tent-peggers back of a canvas smoked and cursed over a poker game. Lights switched out, putting a summer gloom over the carnival. People streamed homeward in cliques and queues. Somewhere, a radio flared up, then cut, leaving Louisiana sky wide and silent with stars.

There was nothing in the world for Charlie but that pale thing sealed in its universe of serum. Charlie's loose mouth hung open in a pink weal, teeth showing; his eyes were puzzled, admiring, wondering.

Someone walked in the shadows behind him, small beside Charlie's gaunt tallness. "Oh," said the shadow, coming into the light-bulb glare. "You still here, bud?"

"Yeah," said Charlie, like a man in his sleep.

The carny-boss appreciated Charlie's curiosity. He nodded at his old acquaintance in the jar. "Everybody likes it; in a peculiar kinda way, I mean."

Charlie rubbed his long jaw-bone. "You--uh--ever consider selling it?"

The carny-boss's eyes dilated, then closed. He snorted. "Naw. It brings customers. They like seeing stuff like that. Sure."

Charlie made a disappointed, "Oh."

"Well," considered the carny-boss, "if a guy had money, maybe--"

"How much money?"

"If a guy had--" the carny-boss estimated, counting fingers, watching Charlie as he tacked it out one finger after another. "If a guy had three, four, say, maybe seven or eight--"

Charlie nodded with each motion, expectantly. Seeing this, the carny-boss raised his total, "--maybe ten dollars or maybe fifteen--"

Charlie scowled, worried. The carny_boss retreated. "Say a guy has _twelve_ dollars--" Charlie grinned. "Why he could buy that thing in that jar," concluded the carny-boss.

"Funny thing," said Charlie, "I got just twelve bucks in my denims. And I been reckoning how looked-up-to I'd be back down at Wilder's Hollow if I brung home something like this to set on my shelf over the table. The folks would sure look up to me then, I bet."

"_Well_, now, listen here--" said the carny-boss.

The sale was completed with the jar put on the back seat of Charlie's wagon. The horse skittered his hoofs when he saw the jar, and whinnied.

The carny-boss glanced up with an expression of, almost, relief. "I was tired of seeing that damn thing around, anyway. Don't thank me. Lately I been thinking things about it, funny things--but, hell, I'm a big-mouthed so-and-so. S'long, farmer!"

Charlie drove off. The naked blue light bulbs withdrew like dying stars, the open, dark country night of Louisiana swept in around wagon and horse. There was just Charlie, the horse timing his gray hoofs, and the crickets.

And the jar behind the high seat.

It sloshed back and forth, back and forth. Sloshed wet. And the cold gray thing drowsily slumped against the glass, looking out, looking out, but seeing nothing, nothing.

Charlie leaned back to pet the lid. Smelling of strange liquor his hand returned, changed and cold and trembling, excited. _Yes, sir!_ he thought to himself, _Yes, sir!_

Slosh, slosh, slosh...


In the Hollow, numerous grass-green and blood-red lanterns tossed dusty light over men huddled, murmuring, spitting, sitting on General Store property.

They knew the creak-bumble of Charlie's wagon and did not shift their raw, drab-haired skulls as he rocked to a halt. Their cigars were glowworms, their voices were frog mutterings on summer nights.

Charlie leaned down eagerly. "Hi, Clem! Hi, Milt!"

"Lo, Charlie. Lo, Charlie," they murmured. The political conflict continued. Charlie cut it down the seam:

"I got somethin' here. I got somethin' you might wanna see!"

Tom Carmody's eyes glinted, green in the lamplight, from the General Store porch. It seemed to Charlie that Tom Carmody was forever installed under porches in shadow, or under trees in shadow, or if in a room, then in the farthest niche shining his eyes out at you from the dark. You never knew what his face was doing, and his eyes were always funning you. And every time they looked at you they laughed a different way.

"You ain't got nothin' we wants to see, baby-doll."

Charlie made a fist and looked at it. "Somethin' in a jar," he went on. "Looks kine a like a brain, kine a like a pickled jellyfish, kine a like--well, come see yourself!"

Someone snicked a cigar into a fall of pink ash and ambled over to look. Charlie grandly elevated the jar lid, and in the uncertain lantern light the man's face changed. "Hey, now, what in hell _is_ this--?"

It was the first thaw of the evening. Others shifted lazily upright, leaned forward; gravity pulled them into walking. They made no effort, except to put one shoe before the other to keep from collapsing upon their unusual faces. They circled the jar and contents. And Charlie, for the first time in his life, seized on some hidden strategy and crashed the glass lid shut.

"You want to see more, drop aroun' my house! It'll be there," he declared, generously.

Tom Carmody spat from out his porch eyrie. "Ha!"

"Lemme see that again!" cried Gramps Medknowe. "Is it a octopus?"

Charlie flapped the reins; the horse stumbled into action.

"Come on aroun'! You're welcome!"

"What'll your wife say?"

"She'll kick the tar off'n our heels!"

But Charlie and wagon were gone over the hill. The men stood, all of them, chewing their tongues, squinting up the road in the dark. Tom Carmody swore softly from the porch. . . .



Charlie climbed the steps of his shack and carried the jar to its throne in the living room, thinking that from now on this lean-to would be a palace, with an "emperor"--that was the word! "emperor"--all cold and white and quiet drifting in his private pool, raised, elevated upon a shelf over a ramshackle table.

The jar, as he watched, burnt off the cold mist that hung over this place on the rim of the swamp.

"What you got there?"

Thedy's thin soprano turned him from his awe. She stood in the bedroom door glaring out, her thin body clothed in faded blue gingham, her hair drawn to a drab knot behind red ears. Her eyes were faded like the gingham. "Well," she repeated. "What is it?"

"What's it look like to you, Thedy?"

She took a thin step forward, making a slow, indolent pendulum of hips, her eyes intent upon the jar, her lips drawn back to show feline milk teeth.

The dead pale thing hung in its serum.

Thedy snapped a dull-blue glance at Charlie, then back to the jar, once more at Charlie, once more to the jar, then she whirled quickly.

"It--it looks--looks just like _you_, Charlie!" she cried.

The bedroom door slammed.

The reverberation did not disturb the jar's contents. But Charlie stood there, longing after his wife, heart pounding frantically. Much later, when his heart slowed, he talked to the thing in the jar.

"I work the bottom land to the butt-bone every year, and she grabs the money and runs off down home visitin' her folks nine weeks at a stretch. I can't keep hold of her. Her and the men from the store, they make fun of me. I can't help it if I don't know a way to hold onto her! Damn, but I _try!_"

Philosophically, the contents of the jar gave no advice.


Someone stood in the front-yard door.

Charlie turned, startled, then broke out a grin.

It was some of the men from the General Store.

"Uh--Charlie---we--we thought--well--we came up to have a look at that--stuff--you got in that there jar--"


July passed warm and it was August.

For the first time in years, Charlie was happy as tall corn growing after a drought. It was gratifying of an evening to hear boots shushing through the tall grass, the sound of men spitting into the ditch prior to setting foot on the porch, the sound of heavy bodies creaking the boards, and the groan of the house as yet another shoulder leaned against its frame door and another voice said, as a hairy wrist wiped a mouth clean:

"Kin I come in?"

With elaborate casualness, Charlie'd invite the arrivals in. There'd be chairs, soapboxes for all, or at least carpets to squat on. And by the time crickets were itching their legs into a summertime humming and frogs were throat-swollen like ladies with goiters shouting in the great night, the room would be full to bursting with people from all the bottom lands.

At first nobody would say anything. The first half-hour of such an evening, while people came in and got settled, was spent in carefully rolling cigarettes. Putting tobacco neatly into the rut of brown paper, loading it, tamping it, as they loaded and tamped and rolled their thoughts and fears and amazement for the evening. It gave them time to think. You could see their brains working behind their eyes as they fingered the cigarettes into smoking order.

It was kind of a rude church gathering. They sat, squatted, leaned on plaster walls, and one by one, with reverent awe, they stared at the jar upon its shelf.

They wouldn't stare sudden-like. No, they kind of did it slow, casual, as if they were glancing around the room--letting their eyes fumble over just any old object that happened into their consciousness.

And--just by accident, of course--the focus of their wandering eyes would occur always at the same place. After a while all eyes in the room would be fastened to it, like pins stuck in some incredible pincushion. And the only sound would be someone sucking a corncob. Or the children's barefooted scurry on the porch planks outside. Maybe some woman's voice would come, "You kids git away, now! Git!" And with a giggle like soft, quick water, the bare feet would rush off to scare the bullfrogs.

Charlie would be up front, naturally, on his rocking chair, a plaid pillow under his lean rump, rocking slow, enjoying the fame and looked-up-to-ness that came with keeping the jar.

Thedy, she'd be seen way back of the room with the womenfolk in a bunch, all gray and quiet, abiding their men.

Thedy looked like she was ripe for jealous screaming. But she said nothing, just watched men tromp into her living room and sit at the feet of Charlie, staring at this here Holy Grail-like thing, and her lips were set cold and hard and she spoke not a civil word to anybody.

After a period of proper silence, someone, maybe old Gramps Medknowe from Crick Road, would clear the phlegm from a deep cave somewhere inside himself, lean forward, blinking, wet his lips, maybe, and there'd be a curious tremble in his calloused fingers.

This would cue everyone to get ready for the talking to come. Ears were primed. People settled like sows in the warm mud after a rain.

Gramps looked a long while, measured his lips with a lizard tongue, then settled back and said, like always, in a high, thin oldman's tenor:

"Wonder what it is? Wonder if it's a he or a she or just a plain old _it?_ Sometimes I wake up nights, twist on my corn-matting, think about that jar settin' here in the long dark. Think about it hangin' in liquid, peaceful and pale like an animal oyster. Sometimes I wake Maw and we both think on it. . . ."

While talking, Gramps moved his fingers in a quavering pantomime. Everybody watched his thick thumb weave, and the other heavy-nailed fingers undulate.

". . . we both lay there, thinkin'. And we shivers. Maybe a hot night, trees sweatin', mosquitoes too hot to fly, but we shivers jest the same, and turn over, trying to sleep. . . ."

Gramps lapsed back into silence, as if his speech was enough from him, let some other voice talk the wonder, awe, and strangeness.

Juke Marmer, from Willow Sump, wiped sweat off his palms on the round of his knees and softly said:

"I remember when I was a runnel-nosed kid. We had a cat who was all the time makin' kittens. Lordamighty, she'd a litter any time she jumped around and skipped a fence--" Juke spoke in a kind of holy softness, benevolent. "Well, we give the kittens away, but when this one particular litter busted out, everybody within walkin' distance had one-two our cats by gift, already.

"So Ma busied on the back porch with a big two-gallon glass jar, fillin' it to the top with water. Ma said, 'Juke, you drown them kittens!' I 'member I stood there; the kittens mewed, runnin' 'round, blind, small, helpless, and funny_just beginnin' to get their eyes open. I looked at Ma, I said, 'Not me, Ma! _You_ do it!' But Ma turned pale and said it had to be done and I was the only one handy. And she went off to stir gravy and fix chicken. I--I picked up one--kitten. I held it. It was warm. It made a mewin' sound, I felt like runnin' away, not ever comin' back."

Juke nodded his head now, eyes bright, young, seeing into the past, making it new, shaping it with words, smoothing it with his tongue.

"I dropped the kitten in the water. The kitten closed his eyes, opened his mouth, tryin' for air. I 'member how the little white fangs showed, the pink tongue came out, and bubbles with it, in a line to the top of the water!

"I know to this day the way that kitten floated after it was all over, driftin' aroun', slow and not worryin', lookin' out at me, not condemnin' me for what I done. But not likin' me, neither. Ahhhh. . . ."

Hearts jumped quick. Eyes swiveled from Juke to the shelved jar, back down, up again apprehensively.

A pause.

Jahdoo, the black man from Heron Swamp, tossed his ivory eyeballs, like a dusky juggler, in his head. His dark knuckles knotted and flexed--grasshoppers alive.

"You know what that is? You know, you _know?_ I tells you. That be the center of Life, sure 'nuff! Lord believe me, it so!"

Swaying in a tree-like rhythm, Jahdoo was blown by a swamp wind no one could see, hear or feel, save himself. His eyeballs went around again, as if cut free to wander. His voice needled a dark thread pattern, picking up each person by the lobes of their ears and sewing them into one unbreathing design:

"From that, lyin' back in the Middibamboo Sump, all sort o' thing crawl. It put out hand, it put out feet, it put out tongue an' horn an' it grow. Little bitty amoeba, perhap. Then a frog with a bulgethroat fit ta bust! Yah!" He cracked knuckles. "It slobber on up to its gummy joints and it--it AM HUMAN! That am the center of creation! That am Middibamboo Mama, from which we all come ten thousand year ago. Believe it!"

"Ten thousand year ago!" whispered Granny Carnation.

"It am old! Looky it! It donn worra no more. It know betta. It hang like pork chop in fryin' fat. It got eye to see with, but it donn blink 'em, they donn look fretted, does they? No, man! It know betta. It know that we done come from it, and we is goin' back to it."

"What color eyes it got?"


"Naw, _green!_"

"What color hair? Brown?"



"No, _gray!_"

Then Charlie would give his drawling opinion. Some nights he'd say the same thing, some nights not. It didn't matter. When you said the same thing night after night in the deep summer, it always sounded different. The crickets changed it. The frogs changed it. The thing in the jar changed it. Charlie said:

"What if an old man went back into the swamp, or maybe a young kid, and wandered aroun' for years and years lost in all that drippin', on the trails and gullies, in them old wet ravines in the nights, skin a turnin' pale, and makin' cold and shrivelin' up. Bein' away from the sun he'd keep witherin' away up and up and finally sink into a muck-hole and lay in a kind of--scum--like the maggot 'skeeters sleepin' in sump-water. Why, why--for all we can tell, this might be someone we _know!_ Someone we passed words with once on a time. For all we know--"

A hissing from among the womenfolk back in the shadow. One woman standing, eyes shining black, fumbled for words. Her name was Mrs. Tridden, and she murmured:

"Lots of little kids run stark naked to the swamp ever' year. They runs around and never comes back. I almost got lost maseif. I--I lost my little boy, Foley, that way. You--you DON'T SUPPOSE! ! !"

Breath was snatched through nostrils, constricted, tightened. Mouths turned down at corners, bent by hard, clinching muscle. Heads turned on celery-stalk necks, and eyes read her horror and hope. It was in Mrs. Tridden's body, wire-taut, holding to the wall back of her with straight fingers stiff.

"My baby," she whispered. She breathed it out. "My baby. My Foley. Foley! Foley, is that you? Foley! Foley, tell me, baby, is that YOU!"

Everybody held their breath, turning to see the jar.


The thing in the jar said nothing. It just stared blind-white out upon the multitude. And deep in rawboned bodies a secret fear juice ran like a spring thaw, and their resolute calmness and belief and easy humbleness was gnawed and eaten by that juice and melted away in a torrent! Someone screamed.

"It moved!"

"No, no, it didn' move. Just your eyes playin' tricks!"

"Hones' ta God!" cried Juke. "I saw it shift slow like a dead kitten!"

"Hush up, now. It's been dead a long, long time. Maybe since before you was born!"

"He made a sign!" screamed Mrs. Tridden. "That's my Foley! My baby you got there! Three-year-old he was! My baby lost and gone in the swamp!"

The sobbing broke from her.

"Now, Mrs. Tridden. There now. Set yourself down, stop shakin'. Ain't no more your child'n mine. There, there."

One of the womenfolk held her and faded out the sobbing into jerked breathing and a fluttering of her lips in butterfly quickness as the breath stroked over them, afraid.

When all was quiet again, Granny Carnation, with a withered pink flower in her shoulder-length gray hair, sucked the pipe in her trap mouth and talked around it, shaking her head to make the hair dance in the light:

"All this talkin' and shovin' words. Like as not we'll never find out, never know what it is. Like as not if we found out we wouldn't _want_ to know. It's like magic tricks magicians do at shows. Once you find the fake, ain't no more fun'n the innards of a jackbob. We come collectin' around here every ten nights or so, talkin', social-like, with somethin', always somethin', to talk about. Stands to reason if we spied out what the damn thing is there'd be nothin' to chew about, so there!"

"Well, damn it to hell!" rumbled a bull voice. "I don't think it's nothin'!"

Tom Carmody.

Tom Carmody standing, as always, in shadow. Out on the porch, just his eyes staring in, his lips laughing at you dimly, mocking. His laughter got inside Charlie like a hornet sting. Thedy had put him up to it. Thedy was trying to kill Charlie's new life, she was!

"Nothin'," repeated Carmody, harshly, "in that jar but a hunch of old jellyfish from Sea Cove, a rottin' and stinkin' fit to whelp!"

"You mightn't be jealous, Cousin Carmody?" asked Charlie, slow.

"Haw!" snorted Carmody. "I just come aroun' ta watch you dumb fools jaw about nuthin'. You notice I never set foot inside or took part. I'm goin' home right now. Anybody wanna come along with me?"

He got no offer of company. He laughed again, as if this were a bigger joke, how so many people could be so far gone, and Thedy was raking her palms with her fingernails away back in a corner of the room. Charlie saw her mouth twitch and was cold and could not speak.

Carmody, still laughing, rapped off the porch with his highheeled boots and the sound of crickets took him away.

Granny Carnation gummed her pipe. "Like I was sayin' before the storm: that thing on the shelf, why couldn't it be sort of--all things? Lots of things. All kinds of life--death--I don't know. Mix rain and sun and muck and jelly, all that together. Grass and snakes and children and mist and all the nights and days in the dead canebrake. Why's it have to be _one_ thing? Maybe it's _lots_."

And the talking ran soft for another hour, and Thedy slipped away into the night on the track of Tom Carmody, and Charlie began to sweat. They were up to something, those two. They were planning something. Charlie sweated warm all the rest of the evening. . . .


The meeting broke up late, and Charlie bedded down with mixed emotions. The meeting had gone off well, but what about Thedy and Tom?

Very late, with certain star coveys shuttled down the sky marking the time as after midnight, Charlie heard the slushing of the tall grass parted by her penduluming hips. Her heels tacked soft across the porch, into the house, into the bedroom.

She lay soundlessly in bed, cat eyes staring at him. He couldn't see them, but he could feel them staring.


He waited.

Then he said, "I'm awake."

Then she waited.



"Bet you don't know where I been; bet you don't know where I been." It was a faint, derisive singsong in the night.

He waited.

She waited again. She couldn't bear waiting long, though, and continued:

"I been to the carnival over in Cape City. Tom Carmody drove me. We--we talked to the carny-boss, Charlie, we did, we did, we _sure_ did!" And she sort of giggled to herself, secretly.

Charlie was ice-cold. He stirred upright on an elbow.

She said, "We found out what it is in your jar, Charlie--" insinuatingly.

Charlie flumped over, hands to ears. "I don't wanna hear!"

"Oh, but you gotta hear, Charlie. It's a good joke. Oh, it's rare, Charlie," she hissed.

"Go away," he said.

"Unh-unh! No, no, sir, Charlie. Why, no, Charlie--Honey. Not until I tell!"

"Git!" he said.

"Let me tell! We talked to that carny-boss, and he--he liked to die laughin'. He said he sold that jar and what was in it to some, some--hick--for twelve bucks. And it ain't worth more'n two bucks at most!"

Laughter bloomed in the dark, right out of her mouth, an awful kind of laughter.

She finished it, quick:

"It's just junk, Charlie! Rubber, papier-machй, silk, cotton, boric-acid! That's all! Got a metal frame inside! That's all it is, Charlie. That's all!" she shrilled.

"No, no!"

He sat up swiftly, ripping sheets apart in big fingers, roaring.

"I don't wanna hear! Don't wanna hear!" he bellowed over and over.

She said, "Wait'll everyone hears how fake it is! Won't they laugh! Won't they flap their lungs!"

He caught her wrists. "You ain't gonna tell them?"

"Wouldn't wan me known as a liar, would you, Charlie?"

He flung her off and away.

"Whyncha leave me alone? You dirty! Dirty jealous mean of ever'thing I do. I took shine off your nose when I brung the jar home. You didn' sleep right 'til you ruined things!"

She laughed. "Then I won't tell anybody," she said.

He stared at her. "You spoiled _my_ fun. That's all that counted. It don't matter if you tell the rest. _I_ know. And I'll never have no more fun. You and that Tom Carmody. I wish I could stop him laughin'. He's been laughin' for years at me! Well, you just go tell the rest, the other people, now--might as well have your fun--!"

He strode angrily, grabbed the jar so it sloshed, and would have flung it on the floor, but he stopped trembling, and let it down softly on the spindly table. He leaned over it, sobbing. If he lost this, the world was gone. And he was losing Thedy, too. Every month that passed she danced further away, sneering at him, funning him. For too many years her hips had been the pendulum by which he reckoned the time of his living. But other men, Tom Carmody, for one, were reckoning time from the same source.

Thedy stood waiting for him to smash the jar. Instead, he petted and stroked and gradually quieted himself over it. He thought of the long, good evenings in the past month, those rich evenings of friends and talk, moving about the room. That, at least, was good, if nothing else.

He turned slowly to Thedy. She was lost forever to him.

"Thedy, you didn't go to the carnival."

"Yes, I did."

"You're lyin'," he said, quietly.

"No, I'm not!"

"This--this jar _has_ to have somethin' in it. Somethin' besides the junk you say. Too many people believe there's somethin' in it, Thedy. You can't change that. The carny-boss, if you talked with him, he lied." Charlie took a deep breath and then said, "Come here, Thedy."

"What you want?" she asked, sullenly.

"Come over here."

He took a step toward her. "Come here."

"Keep away from me, Charlie."

"Just want to show you something, Thedy." His voice was soft, low, and insistent. "Here, kittie. Here, kittie, kittie, kittie-- HERE KITTIE!"


It was another night, about a week later. Gramps Medknowe and Granny Carnation came, followed by young Juke and Mrs. Tridden and Jahdoo, the colored man. Followed by all the others, young and old, sweet and sour, creaking into chairs, each with his or her thought, hope, fear, and wonder in mind. Each not looking at the shrine, but saying hello softly to Charlie.

They waited for the others to gather. From the shine of their eyes one could see that each saw something different in the jar, something of the life and the pale life after life, and the life in death and the death in life, each with his story, his cue, his lines, familiar, old but new.

Charlie sat alone.

"Hello, Charlie." Somebody peered into the empty bedroom. "Your wife gone off again to visit her folks?"

"Yeah, she run for Tennessee. Be back in a couple weeks. She's the darndest one for runnin'. You know Thedy."

"Great one for jumpin' around, that woman."

Soft voices talking, getting settled, and then, quite suddenly, walking on the dark porch and shining his eyes in at the people--Tom Carmody.

Tom Carmody standing outside the door, knees sagging and trembling, arms hanging and shaking at his side, staring into the room. Tom Carmody not daring to enter. Tom Carmody with his mouth open, but not smiling. His lips wet and slack, not smiling. His face pale as chalk, as if it had been sick for a long time.

Gramps looked up at the jar, cleared his throat and said, "Why, I never noticed so definite before. It's got _blue_ eyes."

"It always had blue eyes," said Granny Carnation.

"No," whined Gramps. "No, it didn't. They was brown last time we was here." He blinked upward. "And another thing--it's got brown hair. Didn't have brown hair _before!_"

"Yes, yes, it did," sighed Mrs. Tridden.

"No, it didn't!"

"Yes, it did!"

Tom Carmody, shivering in the summer night, staring in at the jar. Charlie, glancing up at it, rolling a cigarette, casually, all peace and calm, very certain of his life and thoughts. Tom Carmody, alone, seeing things about the jar he never saw before. _Everybody_ seeing what he wanted to see; all thoughts running in a fall of quick rain:

"My baby. My little baby," thought Mrs. Tridden.

"A brain!" thought Gramps.

The colored man jigged his fingers. "Middibamboo Mama!"

A fisherman pursed his lips. "Jellyfish!"

"Kitten! Here kittie, kittie, kittie!" the thoughts drowned clawing in Juke's eyes. "Kitten!"

"Everything and anything!" shrilled Granny's weazened thought. "The night, the swamp, death, the pale things, the wet things from the sea!"

Silence. And then Gramps whispered, "I wonder. Wonder if it's a he--or a she--or just a plain old _it?_"

Charlie glanced up, satisfied, tamping his cigarette, shaping it to his mouth. Then he looked at Tom Carmody, who would never smile again, in the door. "I reckon we'll never know. Yeah, I reckon we won't." Charlie shook his head slowly and settled down with his guests, looking, looking.

It was just one of those things they keep in a jar in the tent of a sideshow on the outskirts of a little, drowsy town. One of those pale things drifting in alcohol plasma, forever dreaming and circling, with its peeled dead eyes staring out at you and never seeing you...


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Vision_trick, 23 января 2017

Обожаю Бредбери за такие рассказы?

Redneck, 5 января 2017

А знаете, что самое смешное?) Почитал я тут комментарии. Сколько людей - столько и мнений, и мы с нашими отзывами, "анализом", "мыслями вслух"... больше всего похожи на тех самых фермеров, собравшихся вокруг банки)))

инко, 2 апреля 2016

Кое кто другой, ты напоминаешь мне Ральфа Бэнгарта

Елена, 21 февраля 2014

А мне было котёночка жалко :с

гор, 22 декабря 2013

Спустя некоторое время после первого прочтения я перечитал этот рассказ.и почему-то я подумал,что это-про религию,этакая насмешка над церковью.как мне кажется,неслучайно в рассказе встречается слово вера.мы сами наполняем это содержимым...

анюта, 9 октября 2013

Надо любить и уважать друг друга,....вот в чем смысл....иногда легче убить, чем меняться самому,становиться духовно выше,чтобы быть друг другу интересными...

Даша, 16 апреля 2013

Я вот тоже не особо была уверена до прочтения комментариев, что Чарли убил свою жену. И что он ее как-то туда, банку эту, запихнул. Чисто практический вопрос: а что до этого было в банке? Тоже части тела кого-нибудь до этого убитого?

Praviy, 20 февраля 2013

Я прочитал большую часть повестей, но скажу честно, меня всегда завораживали его рассказы. В них есть что-то особенное, они очень сильны в эмоциональном плане, возможно, многие со мной не согласятся, но моё мнение Брэдбери – это его рассказы, печатная машинка, взятая в аренду в библиотеке, безденежье, все это в рассказах. И, на мой взгляд, самые удачные: «Банка», «Ветер», «Детская площадка»… Но это моё личное мнение, ну а тот, кто больше всех орет какие идиоты и психи все это читают, обычно и хранят самые страшные скелеты в шкафу.

Berillium, 17 июня 2012

Самое страшное в этом рассказе вовсе не убийство и последующая консервация некоторых органов жертвы. Ужасно, что банка с хламом стала центром жизни, счастьем человека, да и целой округи; а также то, с какой лёгкостью мы рушим чужие мечты.

Indigo777, 27 мая 2012

мда, а я, не прочитав отзывы, даже и не поняла бы что Чарли жену убил. Как-то невнимательно я однако прочла. А вообще, не знаю, что уж тут такого мерзкого и ужасного все тут нашли. Ну банка, ну страхи, истории... в нашем мире творятся и более жуткие вещи, нежели все тут описанное. В общем, не впечатлило.

Иринко, 1 апреля 2012

Ну что же цепляетесь к РБ? на момент написания или издания рассказа, ему было 24. До Фаренгейта еще далеко, человек пробует себя и свои мысли в том жанре, в котором его принимают - чернушные рассказики для бульварных журнальчиков. И если брать все это во внимание, рассказ все равно хорош, не гениален, но хорош. Уже чувствуется дар РВ, как психолога: персонажи..психологическая дилемма главного героя, и первый человеческих страх, страх перед неизвестностью. Не зная чего именно опасаться, каждый персонаж придумывает себе свой ужас сам. Очень интересно

Читатель, 29 сентября 2011

Двусмысленность начала и конца просто завораживают. Многие "ужастики" или, скажем, "триллеры" просто, хм, за дверью курят, боясь подойти. "Кое-кто другой"(имя одного из комментаторов), скажем, я, под этот рассказ кушал. А во время прочтения "Скелета" как раз ел куриный окорок, с любопытством рассматривая потом кость- и не проблевался. Пробирает- это да. Замечательный рассказ. Брэдбери всегда пробирал до дрожи, даже в "обычных" рассказах- остротой. А здесь- жесть полнейшая. Зелен виноград, уважаемый!=)

W.F., 27 июня 2011

Олег, отличный анализ.

тотторо, 23 мая 2011

Полная муть! Банка и голова и как она туда влезла
вместо телевизора, угадай, что находится в банке.

Олег, 8 сентября 2010

Стекляная банка с загадочным содержимым обладала удивительным свойством - пробуждать из подсознания людей страхи, комплексы, пережитые шоки.
Старик со своей женой теряли сон, думая о содержимом банки. Что на самом деле они переживали, автор умалчивает. Дед и сам дает всем понять, что он сказал достаточно.
Джук вспомнил страшную психологическую травму своего детства.
Чернокожий фермер говорил: "Это Срединная Мама, верьте мне!" В этих словах кроется посыл:"Люди, все мы братья, я такой же как и вы, не отстраняйтесь от меня из-за цвета моей кожи".
Бабушка Гвоздика говорит, что этой штуке уже 10 тысяч лет, все мы от туда пришли и все мы там очутимся когда нибудь. Наверняка каждый день бабушка, у которой от старости уже не осталась зубов, живет с мыслью о неизбежности смерти.
Убитой горем матери кажется, что это ее маленький, погибший на болоте ребенок, очутился в этой банке.
А вот Чарли выдавал постоянно разные истории о содержимом банки. Он никак не мог свой страх, тревогу, то, что причиняло ему боль поместить в этот сосуд. Не мудрено, ведь то, что мешало ему жить находилось в той же комнате. Раздражалось каждому его успеху, продумывало план его очередного унижения.
Некогда любимое и самое дорогое ему существо, стало для него одним сущим кошмаром, котрый все же Чарли смог "запихнуть в банку" в прямом и переносном смысле.
В банке оказались именно те самые "Безжизненные, широко раскрытые глаза, вечно на тебя глядящие, никогда тебя не замечающие..."
Вспомнился отрывок из моего самого самого любимого рассказа Р.Б.
"Всегда кто-нибудь любит сильнее, чем любят его. И наступает час, когда ты хочешь уничтожить то, что ты любишь, чтобы оно тебя больше не мучило."

гринго, 16 февраля 2009

Банка освободила Чарли...
дала возможность вырваться из замкнутого круга паршивой и ужасной жизни... Дала сил наконец-то наказать всех виновных...
С точки зрения Чарли, кажется все ОК)))
А остальные точки зрения не важны, ведь все субъективно.

Алексанил, 5 июня 2008

рассказ прекрасный, такой тематики рассказ непросто написать. меня покорила комбинация сногсшибающего юмора, захватывающего развития событий (меня захватило даже после того, как я в общем узнал сюжет) и много другого. но трагичность здесь не чувствуется. но убили женщину, мне как-то более жалко было джука, которого котят утопить заставили. а главный герой хоть и заслуживает кары, но его удовлетворяет происходящее, то есть он ее е получает... и если предположить, что изначально он был хорошим парнем, то выходит, его испортила банка, но ему-то что, его не жалко. чуточку жалко тома карноди, имя почему-то кажется мн знакомым, да и образ хоть и примитивненький, но интересный.

Но рассказ делает гениальным основной персоаж: банка.

Хром, 13 мая 2008

короче Анти, Брэдбери показал нам чёрную трагикомедию! супер! тут и чернушность и трагедия и даже своеобразный юмор сплелись воедино. в жизни точно так же. супер!
жаль, что коеккомудругому видимо никогда этого не понять и не испытать. хотя ник красивый..

АнтиРБ, 13 мая 2008

Возвращаемся к обсуждению рассказа "банка".
Зазеркальное отображение одной сюжетной линии из фильма "Человек с бульвара Капуцинов":
приезжает мистер Second и показывает своей деревне ужастики о канибалах и убийцах. В итоге общество скурвивается.
В рассказе РБ каждый крутит свою киношку, а кинооператор набирается от них дерьма.
Я "обычный пользователь:)" берусь читать чужие рассказы для того, чтобы осознать с помощью автора одну из тысячи вечных проблем мироздания.
Осознав я должен ответить для себя на два вопроса: "Кто виноват?" и "Что делать?".
В этом рассказе я не понял "Кто виноват?" - циркач впаривший "интел-бомбу", Чарли поддавшийся на провокацию, жена Чарли осмеявшая его аморочки, Джук топивший котят и рассказавший об этом во всеуслышание или все вместе.
Если виноваты все вместе, то "Что делать?".
В "Бульваре капуцинов" был мистер First, а в рассказе РБ его нет.

Хром, 13 мая 2008

классно ПаХа! я всегда любил краткие стихи, в которых содержится куча всего (минимализм это называется).ваще незнаю как кому, но стихи гораздо проще писать (там рифмы есть) чем прозу. стихов у меня куча (в основном тексты, потому как стихи проще воспринимаются облачённые в музыкальную форму, чем с листа) а вот прозу яб в жизЬ не написал!

Па Ха, 13 мая 2008

Shelter :) это я-расстраиваюсь?Поддаюсь на провокации?Я,скажем,опустился несколько ниже своего привычного ''уровня'' вполне сознательно-хочется иногда немножечко выпустить пар.В себе всё держать-не очень-то хорошо.И я прекрасно знаю,что есть люди,с которыми говорить абсолютно бесполезно... Хром,неплохая песня :) ну,раз вы своё творчество показываете,чем я хуже? :) прочитайте и моё стихотворение:Одиночеством пахнет земля, И печалью от радости веет... Вдаль,куда-то в туман,уходя, Я вернуться уже не сумею... А когда я дойду до конца, Что останется?Воспоминанья? Может быть,счастье хуже страданья? Может,зрячие слепы глаза?...вот :)

Просто Я, 13 мая 2008

Анти,Shelter, отлично сказано! Я б еще добавил, что у Кое-кого "муть" точно какие-то ассоциации вызвала, раз его так расколбасило. Видать и впрямь сильная вещь...Психологическая!

АнтиРБ, 12 мая 2008

"...нормальные люди читать такое не будут..."
КОЕ-КТО ДРУГОЙ, но вы то прочитали, и даже оставили комментарий :)

Shelter, 12 мая 2008

Па Ха, ну что ты расстраиваешься и поддаешься на провакации? Философски относись к таким горе-"кое"-перцам. Вспомни Гегеля: "Серые умы обычно осуждают то,что выходит за рамки их понимания". Как он тебе обоснует:)?

Па Ха, 12 мая 2008

Кое-кто другой,а теперь выслушай,плз,меня:из твоих слов выходит,что все мы,поклонники Рэя,моральные уроды.Так что обидел ты всех.Хотя нет.На тебя,столь глупо судящего людей,ничуть не более красивого,чем мы,в моральном плане,если не сказать-уродливого,грех обижаться.Лично я на подобные суждения просто кладу,да и отвечаю нечасто.То,что ты не понимаешь творчества Брэдбери,не повод называть людей(а заодно и самого Рэя) моральными уродами и всем таким.Тем более в твоей реплике твоя духовная ''красота'' просто блещет.Называть что-то(или кого-то) говном безо всякого основания-это,знаешь ли,не высший уровень морального развития...а насчёт ''писать такие мутные рассказы''-я сомневаюсь,что ты написал нечто лучшее. И вообще,огромная просьба ко всем-если ваши оценки,мягко говоря,отрицательные,не ограничивайтерь выражениями типа '' это фуфляк'',пожалуйста,обосновывайте своё мнение :) . Извините за излишнюю,возможно,резкость-пишу,что думаю...

кое кто другой, 7 мая 2008

ну скажите, ответте мне - на фига писать такие мутные рассказы. чуть не проблевался пока его прочитал. мне кажется, Брэдбери читают одни моральные уроды. простите, если кого обидел. но нормальные люди читать такое не будут

Паша, 28 февраля 2008

Прав ли был Чарли,сделав ЭТО?Кто знает...

Марина, 5 февраля 2008

Беех... Просто ужасно, желудок сжался и пытается отдать еду назад!

Вестерн, 26 июня 2007

Другие рассказы в этом сборнике гораздо страшенее физиологически. Но этот все равно более страшный и болезненный в душевном плане. Больно его читать. И грустно. Неужели такой и должна быть настоящая литература?...

Мгыл, 16 марта 2007

"ели мясо мужики"©

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