Summer is over

One. Two. Hattie froze in bed, silently counting the lingering, slow beats of the courthouse chimes. Sleepy streets lay beneath the tower, and the city clock, round and white, became like the full moon, which at the end of summer invariably flooded the town with an icy glow. Hattie's heart skipped a beat.

She jumped up to look around at the empty alleys that marked the dark, motionless grass. Downstairs, the porch, disturbed by the wind, creaked barely audibly.

Looking in the mirror, she loosened her tight teacher's bun, and her long hair cascaded over her shoulders. The students would be surprised, she thought, if they happened to see these brilliant black waves. It’s not bad at all if you are already thirty-five. Trembling hands pulled out of the chest of drawers several small bundles hidden away. Lipstick, blush, eyebrow pencil, nail polish. Airy pale blue dress, like a cloud of fog. Pulling off her nondescript nightgown, she threw it on the floor, stepped barefoot on the rough material, and pulled the dress over her head.

She moistened her earlobes with drops of perfume, ran lipstick over her nervous lips, shaded her eyebrows, hastily painted her nails.

She stepped out onto the landing of the sleeping house. She glanced apprehensively at the three white doors: would they suddenly open? Leaning against the wall, she paused.

No one looked out into the corridor. Hattie stuck her tongue out at first one door, then two others.

As she descended, not a single step creaked on the stairs, now the path lay on the moonlit porch, and from there to the quiet street.

The air was already filled with the night aromas of September. The asphalt, still warm, warmed her thin, untanned legs.

How long have I wanted to do this. She plucked a blood-red rose to stick in her black hair, hesitated a bit and turned to the curtained eye sockets of the windows of her house: - No one will guess what I'm going to do now. - She circled, proud of her flying dress.

Bare feet trotted silently along a line of trees and dim lamps. Each bush, each fence seemed to appear before her anew, and from this bewilderment was born: “Why didn’t I dare to do this before?” Stepping off the pavement onto a dewy lawn, she deliberately paused to feel the prickly coolness of the grass.

The patrolman, Mr. Walzer, was walking down Glen Bay Street, singing something sad in his tenor. Hattie slipped behind a tree and, listening to his singing, followed his broad back with her eyes.

It was quite quiet near the courthouse, except for the fact that she herself hit her toes a couple of times on the steps of a rusty fire escape. On the upper landing, by the cornice, above which the city clock gleamed silver, she held out her hands.

Here it is, below - a sleeping town!

Thousands of rooftops gleamed from the moonlight snow.

She shook her fist and made faces at the night city. Turning towards the suburbs, mockingly pulled up the hem. She danced and laughed silently, and then snapped her fingers four times in different directions.

In less than a minute, she was already running with burning eyes across the silky city lawns.

Now the house of whispers appeared before her.

Hiding under a very specific window, she heard two male and female voices coming from the secret chamber.

Hattie leaned against the wall; only whispers, whispers reached her ears. They, like two moths, trembled inside, beat against the window glass. Then there was a muffled, distant laugh.

Hattie raised her hand to the glass, her face in awe. Beads of sweat appeared above the upper lip.

What was it? shouted the man behind the glass.

Then Hattie, like a cloud of mist, darted away and disappeared into the night.

She ran for a long time before stopping again at the window, but in a completely different place.

In the light-flooded bathroom, which was the only lighted room in the whole town, stood a young man who, yawning, was carefully shaving in front of a mirror. Black-haired, blue-eyed, twenty-seven years old, he worked at the railway station and took ham sandwiches in a metal box to work every day. After dabbing his face with a towel, he turned off the light.

Hattie hid under the crown of a centuries-old oak - clung to the trunk, where there is a solid cobweb and some kind of plaque. The outer lock clicked, the gravel creaked underfoot, the metal lid clinked. When the air smelled of tobacco and fresh soap, she did not even have to turn around to understand that he was passing by.

Whistling through his teeth, he moved down the street towards the ravine. She followed him, running from tree to tree: either she flew behind the elm trunk with a white veil, then she hid behind the oak tree with a moon shadow. At some point, the man turned around. She barely managed to hide. With a beating heart, she waited. Silence. Then again his steps.

He was whistling "June Night".

A rainbow of lights perched over the edge of the cliff hurled his own shadow right at his feet. Hattie was within arm's reach, behind a century-old chestnut tree.

Stopping for the second time, he did not look back. Just sniffed the air.

The night wind brought the scent of her perfume to the other side of the ravine, as she intended.

She didn't move. Now was not her move. Exhausted from her pounding heart, she clung to the tree.

It seemed that for an hour he did not dare to take a step. She could hear the dew submissively disintegrating under his boots. The warm scents of tobacco and fresh soap wafted in close by.

He touched her wrist. She didn't open her eyes. And he didn't make a sound.

Somewhere in the distance the city clock struck three times.

His lips covered hers gently and lightly. Then they touched the ear.

He pressed her against the trunk. And he whispered. Here, it turns out, who was peeping at him through the windows for three nights in a row! He touched his lips to her neck. Here, then, who was stealthily following him on his heels last night! He peered into her face. The shadows of thick branches lay softly on her lips, cheeks, forehead, and only her eyes, burning with a living brilliance, could not be hidden. She is wonderfully beautiful - does she herself know this? Until recently, he considered it an obsession. His laugh was no louder than a secret whisper. Without taking his eyes off her, he slipped his hand into his pocket. He lit a match and raised it to the height of her face to get a better look, but she pulled his fingers to her and held it in her palm along with the extinguished match. A moment later, the match fell into the dewy grass.

Let it go, he said.

She didn't look up at him. He silently took her by the elbow and pulled her away.

Looking at her untanned legs, she walked with him to the edge of a cool ravine, at the bottom of which, between mossy, willow-covered banks, a silent stream flowed.

He hesitated. A little more and she would have raised her eyes to make sure of his presence. Now they were standing in a lighted place, and she diligently turned her head away so that he could see only the flowing darkness of her hair and the whiteness of her forearms.

He said:

The darkness of the summer night breathed in her calm warmth.

The answer was her hand reaching out to his face.

The next morning, descending the stairs, Hattie found her grandmother, Aunt Maude, and Cousin Jacob munching on their cold breakfast on both cheeks, and were not very happy when she, too, pulled out a chair for herself. Hattie came out to them in a dull long dress with a blank collar. Her hair was pulled back into a tight little bun, and on her carefully washed face, her bloodless lips and cheeks looked completely white. There was no trace left of the summed up eyebrows and painted eyelashes. Nails, one would think, had never known glitter polish.

Ray Douglas Bradbury

Summer morning, summer night

Summer is over

One. Two. Hattie froze in bed, silently counting the lingering, slow beats of the courthouse chimes. Sleepy streets lay beneath the tower, and the city clock, round and white, became like the full moon, which at the end of summer invariably flooded the town with an icy glow. Hattie's heart skipped a beat.

She jumped up to look around at the empty alleys that marked the dark, motionless grass. Downstairs, the porch, disturbed by the wind, creaked barely audibly.

Looking in the mirror, she loosened her tight teacher's bun, and her long hair cascaded over her shoulders. The students would be surprised, she thought, if they happened to see these brilliant black waves. It’s not bad at all if you are already thirty-five. Trembling hands pulled out of the chest of drawers several small bundles hidden away. Lipstick, blush, eyebrow pencil, nail polish. Airy pale blue dress, like a cloud of fog. Pulling off her nondescript nightgown, she threw it on the floor, stepped barefoot on the rough material, and pulled the dress over her head.

She moistened her earlobes with drops of perfume, ran lipstick over her nervous lips, shaded her eyebrows, hastily painted her nails.

She stepped out onto the landing of the sleeping house. She glanced apprehensively at the three white doors: would they suddenly open? Leaning against the wall, she paused.

No one looked out into the corridor. Hattie stuck her tongue out at first one door, then two others.

As she descended, not a single step creaked on the stairs, now the path lay on the moonlit porch, and from there to the quiet street.

The air was already filled with the night aromas of September. The asphalt, still warm, warmed her thin, untanned legs.

How long have I wanted to do this. She plucked a blood-red rose to stick in her black hair, hesitated a bit and turned to the curtained eye sockets of the windows of her house: - No one will guess what I'm going to do now. - She circled, proud of her flying dress.

Bare feet trotted silently along a line of trees and dim lamps. Each bush, each fence seemed to appear before her anew, and from this bewilderment was born: “Why didn’t I dare to do this before?” Stepping off the pavement onto a dewy lawn, she deliberately paused to feel the prickly coolness of the grass.

The patrolman, Mr. Walzer, was walking down Glen Bay Street, singing something sad in his tenor. Hattie slipped behind a tree and, listening to his singing, followed his broad back with her eyes.

It was quite quiet near the courthouse, except for the fact that she herself hit her toes a couple of times on the steps of a rusty fire escape. On the upper landing, by the cornice, above which the city clock gleamed silver, she held out her hands.

Here it is, below - a sleeping town!

Thousands of rooftops gleamed from the moonlight snow.

She shook her fist and made faces at the night city. Turning towards the suburbs, mockingly pulled up the hem. She danced and laughed silently, and then snapped her fingers four times in different directions.

In less than a minute, she was already running with burning eyes across the silky city lawns.

Now the house of whispers appeared before her.

Hiding under a very specific window, she heard two male and female voices coming from the secret chamber.

Hattie leaned against the wall; only whispers, whispers reached her ears. They, like two moths, trembled inside, beat against the window glass. Then there was a muffled, distant laugh.

Hattie raised her hand to the glass, her face in awe. Beads of sweat appeared above the upper lip.

What was it? shouted the man behind the glass.

Then Hattie, like a cloud of mist, darted away and disappeared into the night.

She ran for a long time before stopping again at the window, but in a completely different place.

In the light-flooded bathroom, which was the only lighted room in the whole town, stood a young man who, yawning, was carefully shaving in front of a mirror. Black-haired, blue-eyed, twenty-seven years old, he worked at the railway station and took ham sandwiches in a metal box to work every day. After dabbing his face with a towel, he turned off the light.

Hattie hid under the crown of a centuries-old oak - clung to the trunk, where there is a solid cobweb and some kind of plaque. The outer lock clicked, the gravel creaked underfoot, the metal lid clinked. When the air smelled of tobacco and fresh soap, she did not even have to turn around to understand that he was passing by.

Whistling through his teeth, he moved down the street towards the ravine. She followed him, running from tree to tree: either she flew behind the elm trunk with a white veil, then she hid behind the oak tree with a moon shadow. At some point, the man turned around. She barely managed to hide. With a beating heart, she waited. Silence. Then again his steps.

He was whistling "June Night".

A rainbow of lights perched over the edge of the cliff hurled his own shadow right at his feet. Hattie was within arm's reach, behind a century-old chestnut tree.

Stopping for the second time, he did not look back. Just sniffed the air.

The night wind brought the scent of her perfume to the other side of the ravine, as she intended.

She didn't move. Now was not her move. Exhausted from her pounding heart, she clung to the tree.

It seemed that for an hour he did not dare to take a step. She could hear the dew submissively disintegrating under his boots. The warm scents of tobacco and fresh soap wafted in close by.

He touched her wrist. She didn't open her eyes. And he didn't make a sound.

Somewhere in the distance the city clock struck three times.

His lips covered hers gently and lightly. Then they touched the ear.

He pressed her against the trunk. And he whispered. Here, it turns out, who was peeping at him through the windows for three nights in a row! He touched his lips to her neck. Here, then, who was stealthily following him on his heels last night! He peered into her face. The shadows of thick branches lay softly on her lips, cheeks, forehead, and only her eyes, burning with a living brilliance, could not be hidden. She is wonderfully beautiful - does she herself know this? Until recently, he considered it an obsession. His laugh was no louder than a secret whisper. Without taking his eyes off her, he slipped his hand into his pocket. He lit a match and raised it to the height of her face to get a better look, but she pulled his fingers to her and held it in her palm along with the extinguished match. A moment later, the match fell into the dewy grass.

Let it go, he said.

She didn't look up at him. He silently took her by the elbow and pulled her away.

Looking at her untanned legs, she walked with him to the edge of a cool ravine, at the bottom of which, between mossy, willow-covered banks, a silent stream flowed.

He hesitated. A little more and she would have raised her eyes to make sure of his presence. Now they were standing in a lighted place, and she diligently turned her head away so that he could see only the flowing darkness of her hair and the whiteness of her forearms.

He said:

The darkness of the summer night breathed in her calm warmth.

The answer was her hand reaching out to his face.

The next morning, descending the stairs, Hattie found her grandmother, Aunt Maude, and Cousin Jacob munching on their cold breakfast on both cheeks, and were not very happy when she, too, pulled out a chair for herself. Hattie came out to them in a dull long dress with a blank collar. Her hair was pulled back into a tight little bun, and on her carefully washed face, her bloodless lips and cheeks looked completely white. There was no trace left of the summed up eyebrows and painted eyelashes. Nails, one would think, had never known glitter polish.

You're late, Hattie, - as if by agreement, they all stretched out in chorus, as soon as she sat down at the table.

Do not lean on porridge, Aunt Maud warned. - It's already half past nine. It's time for school. The director will give you the first number. There is nothing to say, the teacher sets a good example for the students.

All three glared at her. Hattie smiled.

You're late for the first time in twenty years, Hattie," Aunt Maud insisted.

Still smiling, Hattie did not move.

It's time to leave, they said.

In the hallway, Hattie pinned her straw hat to her hair and unhooked her green umbrella. The family did not take their eyes off her. On the threshold she flushed, turned around and looked at them for a long time, as if preparing to say something. They even leaned forward. But she only smiled and ran out onto the porch, slamming the door.

Summer is over

One. Two. Hattie froze in bed, silently counting the lingering, slow beats of the courthouse chimes. Sleepy streets lay beneath the tower, and the city clock, round and white, became like the full moon, which at the end of summer invariably flooded the town with an icy glow. Hattie's heart skipped a beat.

She jumped up to look around at the empty alleys that marked the dark, motionless grass. Downstairs, the porch, disturbed by the wind, creaked barely audibly.

Looking in the mirror, she loosened her tight teacher's bun, and her long hair cascaded over her shoulders. The students would be surprised, she thought, if they happened to see these brilliant black waves. It’s not bad at all if you are already thirty-five. Trembling hands pulled out of the chest of drawers several small bundles hidden away. Lipstick, blush, eyebrow pencil, nail polish. Airy pale blue dress, like a cloud of fog. Pulling off her nondescript nightgown, she threw it on the floor, stepped barefoot on the rough material, and pulled the dress over her head.

She moistened her earlobes with drops of perfume, ran lipstick over her nervous lips, shaded her eyebrows, hastily painted her nails.

She stepped out onto the landing of the sleeping house. She glanced apprehensively at the three white doors: would they suddenly open? Leaning against the wall, she paused.

No one looked out into the corridor. Hattie stuck her tongue out at first one door, then two others.

As she descended, not a single step creaked on the stairs, now the path lay on the moonlit porch, and from there to the quiet street.

The air was already filled with the night aromas of September. The asphalt, still warm, warmed her thin, untanned legs.

How long have I wanted to do this. She plucked a blood-red rose to stick in her black hair, hesitated a bit and turned to the curtained eye sockets of the windows of her house: - No one will guess what I'm going to do now. - She circled, proud of her flying dress.

Bare feet trotted silently along a line of trees and dim lamps. Each bush, each fence seemed to appear before her anew, and from this bewilderment was born: “Why didn’t I dare to do this before?” Stepping off the pavement onto a dewy lawn, she deliberately paused to feel the prickly coolness of the grass.

The patrolman, Mr. Walzer, was walking down Glen Bay Street, singing something sad in his tenor. Hattie slipped behind a tree and, listening to his singing, followed his broad back with her eyes.

It was quite quiet near the courthouse, except for the fact that she herself hit her toes a couple of times on the steps of a rusty fire escape. On the upper landing, by the cornice, above which the city clock gleamed silver, she held out her hands.

Here it is, below - a sleeping town!

Thousands of rooftops gleamed from the moonlight snow.

She shook her fist and made faces at the night city. Turning towards the suburbs, mockingly pulled up the hem. She danced and laughed silently, and then snapped her fingers four times in different directions.

In less than a minute, she was already running with burning eyes across the silky city lawns.

Now the house of whispers appeared before her.

Hiding under a very specific window, she heard two male and female voices coming from the secret chamber.

Hattie leaned against the wall; only whispers, whispers reached her ears. They, like two moths, trembled inside, beat against the window glass. Then there was a muffled, distant laugh.

Hattie raised her hand to the glass, her face in awe. Beads of sweat appeared above the upper lip.

What was it? shouted the man behind the glass.

She ran for a long time before stopping again at the window, but in a completely different place.

In the light-flooded bathroom, which was the only lighted room in the whole town, stood a young man who, yawning, was carefully shaving in front of a mirror. Black-haired, blue-eyed, twenty-seven years old, he worked at the railway station and took ham sandwiches in a metal box to work every day. After dabbing his face with a towel, he turned off the light.

Hattie hid under the crown of a centuries-old oak - clung to the trunk, where there is a solid cobweb and some kind of plaque. The outer lock clicked, the gravel creaked underfoot, the metal lid clinked. When the air smelled of tobacco and fresh soap, she did not even have to turn around to understand that he was passing by.

Whistling through his teeth, he moved down the street towards the ravine. She followed him, running from tree to tree: either she flew behind the elm trunk with a white veil, then she hid behind the oak tree with a moon shadow. At some point, the man turned around. She barely managed to hide. With a beating heart, she waited. Silence. Then again his steps.

He was whistling "June Night".

A rainbow of lights perched over the edge of the cliff hurled his own shadow right at his feet. Hattie was within arm's reach, behind a century-old chestnut tree.

Stopping for the second time, he did not look back. Just sniffed the air.

The night wind brought the scent of her perfume to the other side of the ravine, as she intended.

She didn't move. Now was not her move. Exhausted from her pounding heart, she clung to the tree.

It seemed that for an hour he did not dare to take a step. She could hear the dew submissively disintegrating under his boots. The warm scents of tobacco and fresh soap wafted in close by.

He touched her wrist. She didn't open her eyes. And he didn't make a sound.

Somewhere in the distance the city clock struck three times.

His lips covered hers gently and lightly. Then they touched the ear.

He pressed her against the trunk. And he whispered. Here, it turns out, who was peeping at him through the windows for three nights in a row! He touched his lips to her neck. Here, then, who was stealthily following him on his heels last night! He peered into her face. The shadows of thick branches lay softly on her lips, cheeks, forehead, and only her eyes, burning with a living brilliance, could not be hidden. She is wonderfully beautiful - does she herself know this? Until recently, he considered it an obsession. His laugh was no louder than a secret whisper. Without taking his eyes off her, he slipped his hand into his pocket. He lit a match and raised it to the height of her face to get a better look, but she pulled his fingers to her and held it in her palm along with the extinguished match. A moment later, the match fell into the dewy grass.

Let it go, he said.

She didn't look up at him. He silently took her by the elbow and pulled her away.

Looking at her untanned legs, she walked with him to the edge of a cool ravine, at the bottom of which, between mossy, willow-covered banks, a silent stream flowed.

He hesitated. A little more and she would have raised her eyes to make sure of his presence. Now they were standing in a lighted place, and she diligently turned her head away so that he could see only the flowing darkness of her hair and the whiteness of her forearms.

He said:

The darkness of the summer night breathed in her calm warmth.

The answer was her hand reaching out to his face.

The next morning, descending the stairs, Hattie found her grandmother, Aunt Maude, and Cousin Jacob munching on their cold breakfast on both cheeks, and were not very happy when she, too, pulled out a chair for herself. Hattie came out to them in a dull long dress with a blank collar. Her hair was pulled back into a tight little bun, and on her carefully washed face, her bloodless lips and cheeks looked completely white. There was no trace left of the summed up eyebrows and painted eyelashes. Nails, one would think, had never known glitter polish.

You're late, Hattie, - as if by agreement, they all stretched out in chorus, as soon as she sat down at the table.

Do not lean on porridge, Aunt Maud warned. - It's already half past nine. It's time for school. The director will give you the first number. There is nothing to say, the teacher sets a good example for the students.

All three glared at her. Hattie smiled.

You're late for the first time in twenty years, Hattie," Aunt Maud insisted.

Still smiling, Hattie did not move.

It's time to leave, they said.

In the hallway, Hattie pinned her straw hat to her hair and unhooked her green umbrella. The family did not take their eyes off her. On the threshold she flushed, turned around and looked at them for a long time, as if preparing to say something. They even leaned forward. But she only smiled and ran out onto the porch, slamming the door.

• 14.

Summer is over
One. Two. Hattie froze in bed, silently counting the lingering, slow beats of the courthouse chimes. Sleepy streets lay beneath the tower, and the city clock, round and white, became like the full moon, which at the end of summer invariably flooded the town with an icy glow. Hattie's heart skipped a beat.
She jumped up to look around at the empty alleys that marked the dark, motionless grass. Downstairs, the porch, disturbed by the wind, creaked barely audibly.
Looking in the mirror, she loosened her tight teacher's bun, and her long hair cascaded over her shoulders. The students would be surprised, she thought, if they happened to see these brilliant black waves. It’s not bad at all if you are already thirty-five. Trembling hands pulled out of the chest of drawers several small bundles hidden away. Lipstick, blush, eyebrow pencil, nail polish. Airy pale blue dress, like a cloud of fog. Pulling off her nondescript nightgown, she threw it on the floor, stepped barefoot on the rough material, and pulled the dress over her head.
She moistened her earlobes with drops of perfume, ran lipstick over her nervous lips, shaded her eyebrows, hastily painted her nails.
Ready.
She stepped out onto the landing of the sleeping house. She glanced apprehensively at the three white doors: would they suddenly open? Leaning against the wall, she paused.
No one looked out into the corridor. Hattie stuck her tongue out at first one door, then two others.
As she descended, not a single step creaked on the stairs, now the path led to a moonlit porch, and from there to a quiet street.
The air was already filled with the night aromas of September. The asphalt, still warm, warmed her thin, untanned legs.
How long have I wanted to do this. She plucked a blood-red rose to stick in her black hair, hesitated a moment, and turned to the curtained eye sockets of her house windows. “No one will guess what I'm going to do now. She twirled, proud of her flying dress.
Bare feet trotted silently along a line of trees and dim lamps. Each bush, each fence seemed to appear before her anew, and from this bewilderment was born: “Why didn’t I dare to do this before?” Stepping off the pavement onto a dewy lawn, she deliberately paused to feel the prickly coolness of the grass.
The patrolman, Mr. Walzer, was walking down Glen Bay Street, singing something sad in his tenor. Hattie slipped behind a tree and, listening to his singing, followed his broad back with her eyes.
It was quite quiet near the courthouse, except for the fact that she herself hit her toes a couple of times on the steps of a rusty fire escape. On the upper landing, by the cornice, above which the city clock gleamed silver, she held out her hands.
Here it is, below - a sleeping town!
Thousands of rooftops gleamed from the moonlight snow.
She shook her fist and made faces at the night city. Turning towards the suburbs, mockingly pulled up the hem. She danced and laughed silently, and then snapped her fingers four times in different directions.
In less than a minute, she was already running with burning eyes across the silky city lawns.
Now the house of whispers appeared before her.
Hiding under a very specific window, she heard two male and female voices coming from the secret chamber.
Hattie leaned against the wall; only whispers, whispers reached her ears. They, like two moths, trembled inside, beat against the window glass. Then there was a muffled, distant laugh.
Hattie raised her hand to the glass, her face in awe. Beads of sweat appeared above the upper lip.
- What was it? shouted the man behind the glass.

Dec 14, 2016

Summer morning, summer night Ray Bradbury

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Title: Summer morning, summer night

About "Summer Morning, Summer Night" by Ray Bradbury

The book "Summer Morning, Summer Night" by the famous American writer Ray Bradbury is a continuation of his legendary novel "Dandelion Wine" and the story "Goodbye Summer!".

The book "Summer Morning, Summer Night", which Ray Bradbury released in 2007, sort of closes the cycle of the author's trilogy, in which Ray Bradbury shares memories of his difficult childhood.

The book "Summer Morning, Summer Night" is twenty-seven fascinating stories. The main geographical area where the action in the book is played out is the tiny fictional town of Greentown. These stories are dedicated to both Greentown itself and its inhabitants - Greentown residents. Greentown is an amazing city! Here, the intoxicating aroma of ripe apples can turn your head in earnest, summer never ends here, and first love ... it promises to become an eternal “song” of love between two lovers.

Interestingly, Ray Bradbury wrote some of the stories from the collection "Summer Morning, Summer Night" in the late 1940s - early 1950s. These stories are absolutely new - they are not repeated on the pages of the novel "Dandelion Wine" and the story "Summer, goodbye!". Thanks to this collection, the reader can fully appreciate the scope of the author's intention of Ray Bradbury.

Old man Bradbury would not have been one of the best writers of his time if he had not once again proved the wisdom of the people: beauty is in simplicity and uncomplicatedness. Reading stories is easy - they are laid-back, at first glance, completely unsophisticated. You will not find outright fantasy and formulaic fantasy here. Old Man Bradbury doesn't need such literary "techniques". For what? After all, he knows perfectly well that every day is magical in its own way, and every person is a beautiful planet. And Ray knows how to convey this in an accessible and understandable way on the pages of his books.

The collection is “impregnated” with the theme of love. The writer's characters are ironic and laid-back. They cheerfully talk about love, sometimes, “giving out” incredible thoughts like “Love has a bad effect on the vestibular apparatus,” said the father. - From this girls fall straight into the arms of men. I already know. I was almost crushed by one young lady, and I can say ... ”.

The subtle humor of the stories quickly lifts the mood and makes you sincerely laugh at the vicissitudes of life in Greentown.

On the pages of the end of the Bradber trilogy, one encounters: children with their spontaneity, old people with their conservative view of the world. And youth - thirsty and looking for endless love and pleasure. And the middle generation has traditionally “plunged” into its own problems and sees nothing further than its own nose. And they all think, act and interact with each other.

On our site about books, you can download the site for free without registration or read online the book "Summer Morning, Summer Night" by Ray Bradbury in epub, fb2, txt, rtf, pdf formats for iPad, iPhone, Android and Kindle. The book will give you a lot of pleasant moments and a real pleasure to read. You can buy the full version from our partner. Also, here you will find the latest news from the literary world, learn the biography of your favorite authors. For novice writers, there is a separate section with useful tips and tricks, interesting articles, thanks to which you can try your hand at writing.

Quotes from "Summer Morning, Summer Night" by Ray Bradbury

Girls, when they are in love, only seem stupid, because they do not hear anything at that time.

You will never know how this girl at some point suddenly becomes a trot. This is where the man gets caught.

Memory rewrites everything in its own way. Multiply by two, by three, or even by four.

The kiss is only the first note of the first measure. And then a symphony will go, but a cacophony can happen ...

He was only twenty, and with every woman who sat on the porch when he walked by, or waved from the bus, he had a failed romance.

It is a flower without aroma, - the old people noticed. - Today, many girls look like such flowers. Touch - and they are paper ...

You just need to grow up as a person who looks at the world with open eyes and is not deceived. In this case, even human treachery will seem funny, nothing more. When you understand that there is always a particle of evil in human nature, it will be easier for you to endure.

The mother was torn between two truths. After all, children have their own truth - inexperienced, one-dimensional, and she has her own, worldly, too naked, gloomy and all-encompassing to open it to cute, unintelligent creatures who, with bursting laughter, run in developing cotton dresses towards their ten-year-old world.

Some consciously choose this fate: they crave like crazy for the view outside the window to change every week, every month, every year, but with age they begin to realize that they are only collecting worthless roads and unnecessary cities, no more solid than movie scenery. , and see off with the eyes of mannequins that flicker in the shop windows outside the window of a slow night train.

He who ceased to be surprised, he ceased to love, and ceased to love - consider that you have no life, and whoever has no life, Douglas, my friend, consider that he has gone to the grave.

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