Friday, June 08, 2012


Yesterday in the morning I read the NY Times obituary on writer Ray Bradbury. It is a fine and extremely detailed one which drew lots from a June 4 New Yorker autobiographical essay. It seems that Bradbury, who never went to college and boasted about it, extracted most of his inspiration from when he was a young boy. Of this boyhood in Illinois he wrote:


It was one frenzy after one elation after one enthusiasm after one hysteria after another… You rarely have such fevers later in life that fill your entire day with emotion.

Reading this made me reflect and worry of the present and troubling years of my 14 year-old granddaughter Rebecca who should be subject to all that childhood wonder and frenzy. I despair but can only hope for the best.

While reading the obituary something else clicked in my brain so I rushed down to my library, to the section where I have my books in Spanish. I knew what to look for and that is a Borges book with a whimsical (but labyrinthine) title Forwards with a Forward of Forwards. In it are forwards to translation of some universal works into Spanish like Shakespeare’s Macbeth, Olaf Stapelton’s Starmaker (one of my favourite science fiction novels of all time) , Frances Bret Harte, Paul Valéry and yes (!) Ray Bradbury’s Crónicas Marcianas.

I thought about going through the effort of translating it into English for those who may be reading this and would have no way of knowing that the distinguished Argentine author was a Bradbury fan. Fortunately Google (if it isn’t in Google it does not exist, if it isn’t in facebook it never happened) has provided me with a translation via the Ray Bradbury Homepage by a man called Captain Spender (he named himself after a character in Ray Bradbury’s Martian Chronicles from the stories And the Moon Be Still as Bright and The Settlers). This is it:


In the Second Century of our Era, Luciano de Samosata composed a truthful History, comprising, among other wonders, a description of the selenites who - according to the truthful historian - thread and comb metals and glass, put on and take off their eyes, drink air juice or squeezed air; in the early XVI century, Ludovico Ariosto imagined that a knight discovers on the Moon all that is lost on Earth, the tears and sighs of lovers, the time wasted in gambling, useless projects and unsatisfied longings. In the XVII Century, Kepler drafted a Somnium Astronomicum, that aspires to be the transcription of a book read in a dream, densely revealing in its pages the configuration and habits of the snakes of the Moon, that stay in deep caverns during the heat of the day and come out at dusk. Between the first and second of these imaginary trips there are thirteen hundred years, and between the second and the third, about a hundred; the first two are, however, irresponsible and free inventions and the third one is stalled by a thrive for credibility. The reason is clear. For Luciano and for Ariosto, a trip to the moon was a symbol or archetype of the impossible, as black feathered swans were for the Latin; for Kepler, it was already a possibility, as for us. Didn't John Wilkins, inventor of a universal language, publish in those years, his 'The Discovery of a World in the Moone: Or A Discourse Tending To Prove that 'tis probable there may be another habitable World in that Planet' with an appendix titled "The possibility of a passage thither"?


In the 'Attic Nights' of Aulo Gelio, one reads that Arquitas the Pythagoric manufactured a wooden pigeon that flew in the air; Wilkins predicts an analog or similar mechanism will take us, someday, to the moon.


By its nature of anticipation of a possible or probable future, the 'Somnium Astronomicum' precedes, unless I am mistaken, the new narrative genre that Americans of the North label 'science-fiction' or 'sciencefiction' and of which these Chronicles are an admirable example.


Their theme is the conquest and colonization of the planet. This arduous enterprise of the future men seems destined for the times, but Ray Bradbury has preferred (unknowingly, perhaps, and by secret inspiration of his genius) an elegiac tone. Martians, who at the beginning of the book are horrible, deserve his pity when annihilation reaches them. Men vanquish and the author is not proud of their victory. He announces with sadness and disappointment the future expansion of mankind over the red planet - that his prophecy reveals as a desert of vague blue sand, with ruins of chess-like cities and yellow sunsets and ancient ships to wander on the sand.


Other authors stamp a coming date and we don't believe them, because we know it is a literary convention; Bradbury writes 2004 and we feel the gravitation, the fatigue, the vast and vague accumulation of the past - the 'dark backward and abysm of Time' from the Shakespeare verse. Already the Renaissance had noted, by mouth of Giordano Bruno and of Bacon, that the real Ancient Ones are us, and not the men from Genesis or Homer.


What has this man from Illinois done, I ask myself when closing the pages of his book, that episodes from the conquest of another planet fill me with horror and loneliness?


How can these fantasies touch me, and in such an intimate way? All literature (I dare reply) is symbolic; there are a few fundamental experiences and it is indifferent that a writer, to transmit them, recurs to the fantastic or the real, to Macbeth or to Rascolnikov, to the Belgium invasion in August 1914 or to an invasion of Mars. Who cares about the novel, or novelty of science fiction? In this book of ghostly appearance, Bradbury has placed his long empty Sundays, his American tedium, his loneliness, like Sinclair Lewis did on Main Street.


Perhaps the third expedition is the most alarming story in this volume. Its horror - I suspect - is metaphysical. The uncertainty of the guests of Captain Black suggests uncomfortably, that we do not know who we are either, or how our faces are to God. I would also like to highlight the episode 'The Martian', which includes a pathetic variation of the myth of Protheus.


Towards 1909 I read, with fascinated anguish, in the sunset of a large house that no longer exists, The First Men on the Moon, by Wells. By virtue of these Chronicles, of very diverse conception and execution, I have been given to relive, in the last days of fall, 1954, those delectable horrors.


Jorge Luis Borges


Captain Wilder, Fourth Expedition

And in Spanish:


Ray Bradbury: Crónicas marcianas.


En el segundo siglo de nuestra era, Luciano de Samosata compuso una Historia verídica, que encierra, entre otras maravillas, una descripción de los selenitas, que (según el verídico historiador) hilan y cardan los metales y el vidrio, se quitan y se ponen los Ojos, beben zumo de aire o aire exprimido; a principios del siglo xvi, Ludovico Ariosto imaginó que un paladín descubre en la Luna todo lo que se pierde en la Tierra, las lágrimas y suspiros de los amantes, el tiempo malgastado en el juego, los proyectos inútiles y los no saciados anhelos; en el siglo XVII, Kepler redactó un Somnium Astronomicum, que finge ser la transcripción de un libro leído en un sueño, cuyas páginas prolijamente revelan la conformación y los hábitos de las serpientes de la Luna, que durante los ardores del día se guarecen en profundas cavernas y salen al atardecer. Entre el primero y el segundo de estos viajes imaginarios hay mil trescientos años y entre el segundo, y el tercero, unos den; los dos primeros son, sin embargo, invenciones irresponsables y libres y el tercero está como entorpecido por un afán de verosimilitud. La razón es dara. Para Ludano y para Ariosto, un viaje a la Luna era símbolo o arquetipo de lo imposible, como los cisnes de plumaje negro para el latino; para Kepler, ya era una posibilidad, como para nosotros. ¿No publicó por aquellos años John Wilkins, inventor de una lengua universal, su Descubrimiento de un Mundo en la Luna, discurso tendiente a demostrar que puede haber otro Mundo habitable en aquel Planeta, con un apéndice titulado Discurso sobre la posibilidad de una travesía? En las Noches áticas de Aulo Gelio se lee que Arquitas el pitagórico fabricó una paloma de madera que andaba por el aire; Wilkins predice que un de mecanismo análogo o parecido nos llevará, algún día, a la Luna.

Por su carácter de anticipación de un porvenir posible o probable, el Somnium Astronomicum prefigura, si no me equivoco, el nuevo género narrativo que los americanos del Norte denominan science-fiction o scientifiction (1) y del que son admirable ejemplo estas Crónicas. Su tema es la conquista y colonización del planeta. Esta ardua empresa de los hombres futuros parece destinada a la época, pero Ray Bradbury ha preferido (sin proponérselo, tal vez, y por secreta inspiración de su genio) un tono elegíaco. Los marcianos, que al principio del libro son espantosos, merecen su piedad cuando la aniquilación los alcanza. Vencen los hombres y el autor no se alegra de su victoria. Anuncia con tristeza y con desengaño la futura expansión del linaje humano sobre el planeta rojo -que su profecía nos revela como un desierto de vaga arena azul, con ruinas de ciudades ajedrezadas y ocasos amarillos y antiguos barcos para andar por la arena.

Otros autores estampan una fecha venidera y no les creemos, porque sabemos que se trata de una convención literaria; Bradbury escribe 2004 y sentimos la gravitación, la fatiga, la vasta y vaga acumulación del pasado -el dark backward and abysm of Time del verso de Shakespeare-. Ya el Renacimiento observó, por boca de Giordano Bruno y de Bacon, que los verdaderos antiguos somos nosotros y no los hombres del Génesis o de Homero.

¿Qué ha hecho este hombre de Illinois me pregunto, al cerrar las páginas de su libro, para que episodios de la conquista de otro planeta me pueblen de terror y de soledad?

¿Cómo pueden tocarme estas fantasías, y de una manera tan íntima? Toda literatura (me atrevo a contestar) es simbólica; hay unas pocas experiencias fundamentales y es indiferente que un escritor, para transmitirlas, recurra a lo "fantástico" o a lo "real", a Macbeth o a RaskoInikov, a la invasión de Bélgica en agosto de 1914 o a una invasión de Marte. ¿Qué importa la novela, o novelería, de la science fiction? En este libro de apariencia fantasmagórica, Bradbury ha puesto sus largos domingos vacíos, su tedio americano, su soledad, como los puso Sinclair Lewis en Main Street.

Acaso La tercera expedición es la historia más alarmante de este volumen. Su horror (sospecho) es metafisico; la incertidumbre sobre la identidad de los huéspedes del capitánjohn Black insinúa incómodamente que tampoco sabemos quiénes somos ni cómo es, para Dios, nuestra cara. Quiero asimismo destacar el episodio titulado El marciano, que encierra una patética variación del mito de Proteo.

Hacia 1909 leí, con fascinada angustia, en el crepúsculo de una casa grande que ya no existe, Los primeros hombres en la Luna, de Wells. Por virtud de estas Crónicas de concepción y ejecución muy diversa, me ha sido dado revivir, en los últimos días del otoño de 1954, aquellos deleitables terrores.