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A Chapbook for Burnt-Out Priests, Rabbis, and Ministers

A Chapbook for Burnt-Out Priests, Rabbis, and Ministers

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A Chapbook for Burnt-Out Priests, Rabbis, and Ministers

4/5 (4 Bewertungen)
125 Seiten
1 Stunde
27. Aug. 2017


From the author of Fahrenheit 451, a unique collection of poetry, short stories, and essays that tackles mortality, religion, and the afterlife.

Thought-provoking, full of wonder, and with a touch of Ray Bradbury’s signature sense of humor, this collection bridges science fiction and the arts to religion and taps into the core of intellectual pursuit.

Included are the soulful and over the top “They Have Not Seen The Stars,” “I Live By The Invisible,” “Christ on Other Planets,” “If Only We Had Taller Been,” “Come Whisper Me A Promise,” and so much more.

One of the most celebrated 20th century authors, known for his speculative fiction, Bradbury has crossed genres with a grace possessed only by masters of the craft.His incredibly sharp wit herewith makes this a must-have for fans old and new.

“For Bradbury enthusiasts, religionists and nearly everyone else, here's a delightful scrapbook of poems and essays, familiar summations but no less vital from a brilliant young fantasist grown older but not old.”—Publishers Weekly

27. Aug. 2017

Über den Autor

Ray Bradbury (22 August 1920 – 5 June 2012) published some 500 short stories, novels, plays and poems since his first story appeared in Weird Tales when he was twenty years old. Among his many famous works are 'Fahrenheit 451,' 'The Illustrated Man,' and 'The Martian Chronicles.'

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A Chapbook for Burnt-Out Priests, Rabbis, and Ministers - Ray Bradbury



Scanning the Universe with its multifold of stars, the humanoid robot George Bernard Shaw at last spoke to describe the history of Mankind:

What are we? Why, in the long night of Time, we are the miracle of force and matter making itself over into imagination and will. Incredible! The Life Force experimenting with forms. The Universe shouting itself alive. We are one of the shouts. Creation turns in its abyss. We have bothered it, dreaming ourselves to shapes. The void is filled with slumbers: ten billion on a billion on a billion bombardments of light and mindless stuff that knows not itself, that sleeps moving and moves but finally to make an eye and waken on itself. Among so much that is flight and ignorance, we are the blind power that gropes like Lazarus from a billion-light-year tomb. We summon ourselves. We say, O Lazarus Life Force, truly come ye forth! So the Cosmos, a motion of deaths, fumbles to reach across Time to find its own flesh and know it to be ours. We touch both ways and find each other miraculous because we are One.

And so, good friends, in a Christmas that is eternal and a New Year that is forever, this wish of love, for all.

We Are the Reliquaries of Lost Time

We are the reliquaries of lost time;

Until our age, the rage to know, collect,

And try at saving everything our eye could touch

Or hand could shape, was raped

By violence of rushing years—

The winds that blew and took our sense,

The rivers on their way to seas

Which swept all fact away

And left us with a coinless bank and empty hands

In storms that blew hot sands abrading wits

So we lost all; not only chaff

But kernels sweet with reckonings of place and hour and myth.

Our tongues were feeble, yet spoke truths

And passed them on as best we could at fires.

Desires and dreams his in the mouths of few

Who traveled telling tales down history.

The same tale varies

With the telling of these normal reliquaries …

But they were all we had!

Until a clay cuneiform took catprints from our paws

Which could be read on shores long after tides of men

Died off and left the wreckage of their nightmares

And their architectural graves.

All this we know, have said.

Because of it, most of the past lies dead.

But us? Now, us?

What do we do that’s special fine?

The wines, the vintages of time we store away

As apothecary and thus savior of the nations

And the nations’ blueprintings

Of their elder shadows and their children’s bright noon suns.

We’ve won.

That’s simply put, yes, right? Simply put.

We’ve won.

For look and comprehend:

We are the reliquaries of all time!

Where saints’ sweet bones were once collected

And put up in crystal canisters with golden lids, We hide a better stuff. Not bones, not skulls,

Integuments of archangelic flesh, not pontiff mummified—

Old John Paul powdered to a snuff against the ague.

We beg from time and keep it all, yes, all,

And once again, now hear it: All!

Machineries now keep what once

Was gone and lost away forever in a sleep

From which no beckoning could bring

So much as one bright word, one monarch’s myth,

One child’s plaything.

We better that.

We chuck and toss and tape and data-ratify

Our world into electric hats (Six? Seven and one half?) (large? small!)

Which others wear ten thousand years from now and stand them Tall.

Of What Is Past, or Passing, or to Come

Of what is past, or passing, or to come,

These things I sense and sing, and try to sum.

The apeman with his cave in need of fire,

The tiger to be slain, his next desire.

The mammoth on the hoof a banquet seems,

How bring the mammoth down fills apeman’s dreams.

How taunt the sabertooth and pull his bite?

How cadge the flame to end an endless night?

All this the apeman sketches on his cave

In cowards’ arts that teach him to be brave.

So, beasts and fire that live beyond his lair

Are drawn in science fictions everywhere.

The walls are full of schemes that sum and teach,

To help the apeman reach beyond his reach.

While all his ape-companions laugh and shout:

"What are those stupid blueprints all about?!

Give up your science fictions, clean the cave!"

But apeman knows his sketching chalk can save,

And knowing, learning, moves him to rehearse

True actions in the world to death reverse.

With ax he knocks the tiger’s smile to dust,

Then runs to slay the mammoth with spark thrust;

The hairy mountain falls, the forests quake,

Then fire is swiped to cook a mammoth steak.

Three problems thus are solved by art on wall:

The tiger, mammoth, fire, the one, the all.

So these first science fictions circled thought

And then strode forth and all the real facts sought,

And then on wall new science fictions drew,

That run through history and end

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