What an incredible ode to Ireland and to a time always gone, always Past, never near! Ray can tell a story, and, even truer, can tell many stories to tell one story, and this one’s no less for these. In fact, the only reason I don’t rate this more highly is because the poetry of it were the best bits and everything else read like someone was demanding more where less said would’ve been better. Which, I know, is crazy of me to insist upon- this is Ray Bradbury talking about living in Ireland in 1953 to write a screenplay for a film adaptation of one of the most audacious books of all time for one of the most audacious directors in any memory! And yet, no, I did not need so many words. There’s some incredibly beautiful and sharp and vivid passages and descriptions in here. Read it, and love it, but don’t count on wanting to revisit it. Just as Ray said for his time in Ireland, I won’t be coming back to this one. Though it will stay with me.

Вот бывает же такое: открываешь книгу, а в тебя летят соленые брызги, ветром сдувает шапку и несёт перегаром от самого местного на свете жителя.
Когда я только начинала читать Рэя Бредбери, я думала что он мечтатель и волшебник. Теперь я понимаю, что, если и волшебник, то ироничный и виртуозно владеющий словом.
Чтобы прочитать эту книгу нужно настроиться, может, немного залить за воротник, потому что иначе может сбить первой волной повествования.
Зато потом затянет до самого последнего листа.

I really loved it, but I'm an easy sell on Bradbury. I do wish I could give 1/2 stars, because I want to give it 4.5, not just 4.

This is different than a lot of Bradbury, though the sense of wide-eyed wonderment is there as it always is. It's a fictionalized version of the months he spent in Ireland writing the screenplay for Moby Dick in 1953. He was working closely with Director John Huston, who was apparently ten kinds of crazy. (No surprise there.)

This is what's interesting: this book was finally published in the early '90's, (Though it does work in some of his earlier short stories as yarns spun by locals down at the pub,) which is about the same time Clint Eastwood's movie "White Hunter, Black Heart" came out. That film is a thinly fictionalized telling of Huston's craziness in Africa while shooting the African Queen with Bogart and Hepburn. I haven't seen that film yet, but I'm interested in the closeness of their timing and the similarity of their titles.

Anyway, if you like Ray Bradbury and think he's all robots and martians, this will be a refreshing change of pace.

I stumbled across an old reading list, which led me to Bradbury's book. I am glad I found it!

https://pamkirst2014.wordpress.com/20...

Often misidentified as a novel (even by the author), this work does not read like one; it reads like a memoir. Bradbury himself said he wrote it after reading Katherine Hepburn's memoir of her own experiences with director John Huston, making 'The African Queen'. When this book first appeared in 1992, it was largely reviewed as a novel and, as such, was found wanting. (Gee, maybe that's because it's not a novel.)

'GS,WW' is Bradbury's decades-later look back at a major turn in his artistic life. Reflecting more than a bit of 'Be careful what you wish for.', the book details the author's dream-come-true of getting a major writing assignment (the screenplay for 'Moby Dick') for one of his heroes (Huston). He sailed to Ireland (he had a fear of flying) and spent a number of months hammering out a script, while soaking in 'the local color' (i.e., a particular local pub) and dealing with Huston's innumerable eccentricities. Right at the end of his assignment, he dashed off its last chunk in a 7-hour frenzied flurry (while feeling Melville's spirit close-at-shoulder), whisked the pages off to Huston for his approval, then said goodbye to his new Irish pals and Ireland itself for good.

He was not around for the actual filming.

Bradbury augments his book with stories (and myths) of the local folk - and a number of those are engaging... until there's something of a steady lapse (in a short series dealing with the Irish national anthem being played in a movie theater) near the end.

By far, the book's main attraction is Bradbury's interaction with Huston (my favorite director, and the man behind my favorite film, 'The Night of the Iguana'). If, going in, you didn't know all that much about the director, the portrait of him here may come off as insufficient - or he may appear to be little more than mercurial, with an unknowable nature. (There really could have been more here to round him out better.) But, if you look deeply into the amount that Bradbury does give (and some of that is downright fascinating; Huston's vaguely permissive views on homosexuality, for example), you may notice Huston as a man beset by the kind of personal quirks that made him less effective as a human being, but uniquely qualified to be a director. He seemed to be always acting (esp. as a not-always-benign trickster) when not working - and working allowed (or, more accurately, forced) him to harness himself at his best.

I loved this book. I'm a lover of Ray Bradbury in general, but this book is something special. Not quite memoir, not quite novel, it encompasses his time writing one of the most beautiful screenplays for one of the most beautiful books ever written. It opens some windows into his time with a volatile and emotionally violent, yet brilliant character in John Huston who, throughout the book, is also a binding agent. Huston is why Bradbury is in Ireland to begin with, and Huston has drawn other brilliant minds as a magnet draws iron filings.

Huston's volatility is contrasted by the boyos at Finn's pub, a collection of stoic, wise, earthy men, drawn together by the magnet Guinness. Bradbury takes inspiration from both groups, and from Dublin, the countryside, and the weather (a constant character).

Lovely character sketches, and good, solid Bradbury.

Usually you glimpse who Ray is as a person through his exceptional short stories, but here he combines fiction and reality seamlessly enough to make you fall in love with the lush green hills of Ireland, the never-ending rain of the country and the good company of the local pub. Prepare to fall even more in love with Ray as a writer as he tells of his time in Ireland writing the script for Moby Dick.

Reread of a curious memoir, a bit of a fix-up since some pieces of it were made into other things like short stories, or the episode of the Ray Bradbury Theater episode with Deanna Durbin singing the Irish national anthem (but which in fact was merely a lovely rendition of Last Rose of Summer by Irish poet Thomas Moore). There's more than a bit of Irish hyperbole in Bradbury's accounts: the bicycle crash, McGillahee's Brat, and the various slightly unbelievable vignettes of John Huston. Illustrations by Edward Sorel just add to the fun.

"...So here they come, these two, no front or tail lights--"
"Isn't there a law against that?"
"To hell with government interference! So here the two come, no lights, flying home from one town to the next. Thrashing like Sin Himself's at their behinds! Both going opposite ways but both on the same side of the road. Always ride on the wrong side of the road, it's safer, they say. But look on these lads, fair destroyed by all that official palaver..."

Great book. Lots that I need to reread and reconsider.

n  This review is crossposted in my blog:n https://beyond-the-letters.blogspot.c...

With Ray you never know what is real and what is imagined. This was supposed to be an autobiographical novel but Bradbury always leaves space for magic in his works, so the reader now is able to enjoy a good piece of fiction with autobiographical notes in it.

“Green Shadows, White Whale” partially consists of stories reprinted from other collections, like “The Haunting of the New”, “The Beggar on O'Connell Bridge” or “Banshee”, and partially of new sketches describing the time Ray Bradbury spent in Ireland in 1953 when John Huston, a famous Hollywood director, invited him to work at the script for the screen version of Melville’s “Moby Dick”. For more than six months the White Whale has become a daily companion for the writer and a ticket to the country that he would favour for the rest of his life.

n  “There is no figuring us,” said Finn. “We Irish are as deep as the sea and as broad. Quicksilver one moment. Clubfooted the next.”n  
n

Ireland is a land of contrast and you can notice it from the very beginning of the novel, when the narrator leaves the ferry and sees the emerald hills all around him. He is dumbstruck by the surrounding beauty but suddenly a lightning splits the sky and tones of water begin to pour down colouring everything with grey. The weather is either splendid or a complete disaster – that’s what the Emerald Isle wants the narrator to learn at once. But not only the weather is contrasted here. The Irishmen themselves are full of fascinating paradoxes.

Every Irishmen regards it as his duty to criticize his own country: the weather, the government, the poverty, the women, the church – everyone and everything is to blame. Still most of them are unbelievably patriotic, it never occurs to them to live their motherland in search of a better place and those who did leave, well, were they really Irish? Very doubtful indeed. In addition they are willing to protect everything they have just criticized in front of everyone else. Only the Irish have the right to discuss Ireland, and if someone else doesn’t like it here – well, the ferry leaves in the morning. These people can run away from the sound of their anthem and simultaneously be proud of their nationality.

n  “For you must never ask an Irishman to get to the point. The long way around and half again is more like it. Getting to the point could spoil the drink and ruin the day”.n  
n

The matter is that they just like to talk, to discuss and to argue so what could be a better topic than their own country? The origins of such eloquence are to be searched in pubs. Pub culture is a very important side of Irish mentality. Pub is the centre of their universe where all the problems are solved, all the issues discussed and any event, large or small, is accompanied by drinking. Bradbury very ironically describes the relations of Irishmen with alcohol. One of the chapters depicts the funeral of an old duke whose last wish was to be buried in a coffin made of wine boxes and have all the specimen of his wine cellar by his side.

Still pubs are not only and not mostly about drinking. It is a place of communication from which the people of this surprising country take their inspiration and positive attitude towards everything. It brings all the people of the land together, regardless of their social position, and lets them speak frankly to each other.

n  “The Irish. From so little they glean so much: squeeze the last ounce of joy from a flower with no petals, a night with no stars, a day with no sun. One seed and you lift a beanstalk forest to shake down giants of converse. The Irish? You step off a cliff and … fall up!”n  
n

It is generally known that people of Ireland are not particularly fond of newcomers. Well, that is only half truth, for they are really suspicious of foreigners but only one compliment to Irish culture can melt their heart. Bradbury assures the reader that once you have deserved their respect, they become very friendly and helpful. But for the conquerors and invaders the Emerald Isle has no mercy. Not only the inhabitants are ready to protect their land, just like Mars in “The Martian Chronicles”, the country acts as a living being which can stand up for itself.

For instance, the author criticizes the Americans who buy old Irish estates to show off and come there to set their own ways. One of the stories tells about a castle that ousts its owner because she and her guests disrespected it with their behaviour. Just like in Wilde’s “Centerville Ghost”, where an American businessman buys a castle with a ghost because such possession can show everyone his wealth and eccentricity. Sadly, the ghost doesn’t want to live with people for whom everything can be bought and sold. In a similar way Bradbury tries to show the reader that culture and tradition should be cherished and valued, an ancient castle is not a place for partying just like art gallery would not be suitable for a dinner. Shortly speaking, in Rome do as the Romans do and don’t think that owning a piece of land could make you native to it.

The episode with the castle is not the only fantastic element in the book. Elves, fairies and brownies inhabit Bradbury’s Ireland, if only you have an eye sharp enough to notice them. If you walk late at night along the road you can hear a banshee crying, if a man has decided not to grow older, so he does. The fantasy is not always clearly visible, in most cases the author leaves the reader wondering whether the story was real or imagined and that is a part of Bradbury’s charm.
Beggars and music is the other topic not to be overlooked and those two are closely linked to each other. Bradbury marvels at how so many talented musicians are reduced to wasting their talent on the passers-by who mostly fail to value it. However, the author has to admit that you never can tell a real pauper from the people who just chose begging as an easier way to earn money using their acting talents. Some may really have no other way to survive, others paint their faces and fake injuries to deceive people in the streets. Ireland is unimaginable without beggars, but Bradbury has no ready ideas of how to treat them, I suppose it is up to each of us to decide whether we are ready to share our money or not.

Although expressing Bradbury’s love and respect to Irish culture and people is the main aim of this novel, we shouldn’t forget that it is also a wonderful example of metaprose, i.e. a novel about creating a novel. Unlike many other authors, Bradbury doesn’t present the process of writing as a series of inspirations and insights, for him it is hard daily work, constant search and improvement. Being a writer you always have to observe, analyse and compare, inspiration doesn’t come from nowhere, you have to search for interesting characters and plot lines everywhere you can.

Working at the script the narrator continuously tries to compare Melville’s characters to the people surrounding him to make them more reliable and realistic, he reads “Moby Dick” over and over again to discover new meanings and extract the most important point. The White Whale is always present in the corner of his mind wherever the narrator goes.

The complicated relations between Ray and John are also represented in the text. The director in “Green Shadows, White Whale” impersonates all the typical qualities of Hollywood bohème and is much criticized by Bradbury. He is depicted as a spoiled and selfish tyrant who wants all the people surrounding him including his wife and colleagues to fulfil all his whims. John is eccentric in many ways from his manner of speech to his taste for strange jokes and tricks. He doesn’t particularly care about other people’s feelings and always says what he thinks, even I front of complete strangers. Bradbury admits that it took him much effort to finish the project with Huston, although in the end they both were satisfied with their work.

Thus, the mysterious White Whale and the Green Shadows of Ireland created a beautiful tandem. This book is neither a detailed autobiography nor an encyclopedia of Irish culture. Still it is a beautiful read, both humorous and sad, and after all who can truthfully describe any culture, especially if it is so full of complications and confusions. As Finn, the pub owner, says in the novel:
“We are a mystery inside a box inside a maze with no door and no key”.

ХУМОР
ИРЛАНДИЯ
БРЕДБЪРИ = ВЪОБРАЖЕНИЕ + ЧОВЕЧНОСТ

Хуморът е нещо, към което съм доста претенциозна в литературата и „в живота“. Със „Зелени сенки, бял кит“ – усмивка от първата до последната буква! В тази книга не открих някакъв оригинален „модерен“ хумор, а автентичен „старомоден“ смях.

„- Ще остана шест месеца. Може би все пак…
- Ще зърнеш отново слънцето и зеленината? Току-виж ти провървяло. Но през 28-а имахме двеста дни дъжд. Нея година се родиха повече гъби, отколкото деца.“

„- Какво време само! – обади се Том.
- Не се подвеждай – предупреди го Джон. – Изглежда прекрасно, но вали шест дни в седмицата. Скоро и ти ще посегнеш към уискито като мен.“

„Дъждът ме изпрати до вратата и остана отвън да чака, за да ме поеме отново, щом изляза.“

Често шегите в книгата са по отношение на времето в Ирландия. Но най-широкоусмихващи са историите на героите. Опитвам се да запомня всяка от тях. Не само в кръчмата, не само във връзка с музиката, не само загадъчните случки. Хареса ми, че романът е по-скоро богата шарена кръпка от свързани или отделни истории, а не плавноразвиващ се сюжет. Аз, неприятел на редовното пиянство, обичах да стоя с тези мъже в кръчмата и на местата на техните лудории. Все пак съжалявам, че това е един силно изразен мъжки свят – местните жени или ги нямаше, или бяха за оплакване, или бяха представяни като досадни кукумявки. А Рики...

„Там, в кръчмата, по време на дългите часове ленив разговор между групата мъже, наподобяващ грижовно отглеждане на градина, в което всеки участваше вместо инструмент със собствения си език и пенливата, начесто надигана халба – ето къде Майк бе попивал своето добродушие.“

„За мен имаше само един Майк. Този, когото самата Ирландия бе оформила от дъжда и лошото време, от сеитбите и жътвите, от своите малцове и хмелове, от втасванията и бутилиранията, от кръчмите с цвят на узряло зърно, от вълнуващите се от нощния вятър ечемик и пшеница – добрият шепот, който се чува надалече в гората или мочурището, докато преминавате. Това беше Майк до мозъка на костите, до очите и сърцето, до сръчните ръце. Ако ме попитате какво прави ирландците такива, каквито са, ще ви посоча пътя, по който да тръгнете, и ще ви кажа къде да свърнете за бара на Хийбър Фин.“

Ирландия – докато английски автори много-много не харесвам, доста ирландски писатели са ми любими. Но дори при наличието на същата човечност сред местните хора в ирландските романи/разкази, превес често има мракът в живота им. Вярно, че американецът Бредбъри е бил само гост за около половин година и така е можело по-лесно да извлече светлото, жизненото. Но мисля, че в този роман (редом с хумора или именно чрез него) не е пропуснато нищо от несгодите по онези места и времена (голямата беднотия на 50-те, просяци в романа колкото щеш; или емигранти).

„Църквата поставя Ирландия на колене, времето я дави, политиците се мъчат да я вкарат в гроба… но тя все продължава своя спринт към далечния изход. И бога ми, мисля, че един ден ще го достигне!“

Човечност (или каквато и да е точната дума).
Светъл лъч е Рей!

„Случвало ли ти се е да се събудиш посред нощ и да усетиш отвън, зад прозорците, първия полъх на лятото след мразовитата зима? Будиш ли тогава жена си, за да ѝ изкажеш благодарността си? Не, просто лежиш като дръвник, подхилквайки се тихичко, насаме с новото време!“

„Така това вече не били две нации, две отделни държави, а една обща раса, която пътувала от едната земя до другата и обратно, със смяната на времето и редуването на сезоните, и така во веки веков.“

Въображение

Дори непредсказуемият Джон Хюстън е принуден да възкликне за предполагаемия Рей:

„За бога, момче, ти си велик писател на научна фантастика, нали така? Превъзходен, изтънчен майстор на фантазията и въображението?“

Затова вярвах безусловно на всичко, дори на неправдоподобното, в тази книга. Но тук имаме „двойна печалба“ – източник на интересните истории са местните хора. Самият писател от Америка така е видял и представил мъжете на Ирландия, че се получава това:

„ – Тук май всички сте писатели.
- Ако сиромашията, пиенето и чесането на езика те прави писател, то наистина сме такива.“

Отделно ако говорим за езика на Рей Бредбъри, той пак е изобилно-образен като в другите му „вълшебни“ творби. Дотолкова богат, че дори е прекалено емоционален и задъхващ на моменти – просто главата на този човек ражда. Вижда и описва. Окото на Рей не вижда едно, вижда поне по три.

„Събудих се и вперих поглед в тавана така, сякаш бе огромна маса от бяла плът, свирепо немигащо око, поразяваща плоска опашка.“

„На бузите ми разцъфнаха испански портокали. Дъхът засвири в ноздрите ми като флейта. Краката ми скритом зашаваха, танцувайки в неподвижните обувки.“

„Застанах, гледайки сивокаменните улици, сивокаменните облаци и вкочанените минувачи, издишващи сиви погребални облачета от мразовитите си устни.“

„Аз се втурнах към Джон, но той с лениво движение на ръката метна вестника в огъня, където той плесна с криле като умираща птица и скоропостижно загина сред сноп от пламък и искри.“

(Толкова жив превод на Деян Кючуков!, особено при разговорите между хората.)

И още:

Музика

„За момент, докато говорехме под студените струи, акордеонът на просяка беше замлъкнал. А сега, сякаш времето го бе събудило за живот, той го разтегна енергично. От виещия се мях на инструмента се изтръгнаха серия астматични звуци, които обаче с нищо не предвещаваха онова, което последва.
Той отвори уста. И запя.
Сладкият, ясен баритонов глас, който се понесе над моста О‘Конъл, бе възхитително стабилен и уверен, без всякакво потрепване или фалш. Сякаш разтваряйки устни, мъжът бе отключил в себе си някакви тайни, съкровени врати. Това бе не толкова песен, колкото пускане на воля на самата душа.“

Природа

„Земята беше зелена.
Но не просто обикновено зелено, а всяка една нотка и вариация. Дори сенките бяха зелени, както и светлината, играеща по кея на градчето и по лицата на митническите инспектори.“

За финал ми се иска да цитирам цялата последна глава 33. Всичко много ми хареса, колкото и да е типична ситуацията. Но не е редно да се цитира каквото и да е от последна глава на роман (дори сюжетът да няма първостепенна роля), затова поне скрито мъничка част от диалозите.

„ – Покрай теб времето тук стана по-хубаво – каза нежно Дуун и избърса нос.
- Аз предлагам – каза Майк – да се преструваме, че някой ден ще се върнеш, а дотогава си мисли за всички истории, които сме събрали, за да ти разкажем, и това ще те прави по-богат.“

Остава да гледам филма ‘Moby Dick’ от 1956 г., въпреки че почти нищо не споменах за Джон Хюстън...

In 1953, Ray Bradbury joined John Huston in Ireland to work on a screenplay of Moby Dick. Many years later, Bradbury assembled his impressions of the six months spent in Ireland into a "novel"; actually, this reads more like a fictionalized series of articles, but if Bradbury wants to call it a novel, then well and good. Obviously, it is very well written. Parts of it are brilliant, especially those chapters dealing with the louche David Snell-Orkney and his bouquet of five "hothouse flowers", which then progresses to the "anthem sprinting" anecdote (and if the National Anthem was played at the end of ballgames instead of the beginning, let it be noted that I would be a champion Anthem Sprinter; as it stands, I'm more of an Anthem Shirker). Where the book feels thin to me is in its coverage of John Huston: it doesn't really add anything to my understanding of one of my top five film directors.