Kingsley Amis called Farenheit 451 'the most skillfully drawn of all science fiction's conformist hells', and having read it hot on the heels of Brave New World (which I couldn't find enough coherence about to properly review, at the time), I was doing a lot of comparisons in my head while I read it. So there'll probably be some comparisons in this review, as well, and I can pretend that this discharges my obligation to say things about Huxley's work.
But starting with this one. I have had a niggling desire to read this book since the age of twelve, when my Tournament of Minds team -- I think this is an Australian thing -- had to write a skit based on its idea of secret oral tradition, of families passing down the classics through the generations to preserve them even though books were banned.
(The skit had to show how two classics had accidentally become merged into a single story along the way: we picked Macbeth and The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. Lady Macbeth and the White Witch were SISTERS and there was RAPPING, and I played a version of Lucy who had a tea fixation. It was epic. We were the state champions.)
But starting with this one. I have had a niggling desire to read this book since the age of twelve, when my Tournament of Minds team -- I think this is an Australian thing -- had to write a skit based on its idea of secret oral tradition, of families passing down the classics through the generations to preserve them even though books were banned.
(The skit had to show how two classics had accidentally become merged into a single story along the way: we picked Macbeth and The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. Lady Macbeth and the White Witch were SISTERS and there was RAPPING, and I played a version of Lucy who had a tea fixation. It was epic. We were the state champions.)
Farenheit 451 gives us a world where books are forbidden; burned, along with the houses in which they're found, by the Firemen. The justification is that they lead to confusion of ideas: that truth cannot be known (and neither, of course, can it be controlled) in the cacophony of words and opinions that exist in books. The protagonist is Guy Montag, a Fireman, who begins -- of course -- to question the beliefs that his job is based on, and finds himself destroying his life in an effort to seek out greater meaning.
First and foremost, I am head-over-heels in love with Bradbury's ability to manipulate language, to tell a good story and to deliver it wrapped in sharp, fresh imagery. Particularly striking is the extremely creepy invention and description of the Mechanical Hound, and also a scene where Montag is frantically trying to remember a quote from the Bible while advertising blasts through the train in which he's riding. And this quote, which I read five times in a row, marvelling at how effective the rhythm is:
The vividness and the gorgeous urgency of Bradbury's prose creates that skillful drawing that Amis picked up on, and along with it comes a sense of humanity that is striking when you consider some of the other moral fables of science fiction. Putting it next to Brave New World, as I said: while both of them are books about particular ideas, particular ways in which society might become restricted in the name of increasing its members' happiness, I think Farenheit 451 successfully manages to be, over and above this, a book about people. Or at least a person. Montag's inner life is what drives the book, what's lingered on, and what delivers the message. It means that the narrative is smaller, tighter, than the explicit and wide-ranging world-building delivered in Brave New World (which has its own charms, albeit more intellectual ones).
As with a lot of older sci fi (yes, Brave New World had this problem too) there are some serious issues related to the portrayal of women. Montag's wife Mildred isn't quite one-dimensional, but she's never sympathetic; just shrill, pathetic and pitiable. And as the catalyst for Montag's changing views on his occupation, the character of Clarisse just might be the prototypical Manic Pixie Dream Girl: she turns up out of the blue and talks about whimsical things! She tries to get him to expand his horizons and enjoy life! And, tellingly:
Ah, the dream of repressed and empty-souled men everywhere: a pretty young thing whose existence is all about you.
Anyway.
I have to love this novel, because at heart it's about the words with which we choose to fill our lives. Bradbury is telling us his opinion of the importance of books.
The importance, then, seems to be a direct echo of Santayana: Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it. It's an adventure story that's telling us to honour our stories, because they're how we learn about where we've been, and what we look like now, and where we might be heading.
Take a long look in them.
First and foremost, I am head-over-heels in love with Bradbury's ability to manipulate language, to tell a good story and to deliver it wrapped in sharp, fresh imagery. Particularly striking is the extremely creepy invention and description of the Mechanical Hound, and also a scene where Montag is frantically trying to remember a quote from the Bible while advertising blasts through the train in which he's riding. And this quote, which I read five times in a row, marvelling at how effective the rhythm is:
We are bits and pieces of history and literature and international law, Byron, Tom Paine, Machiavelli or Christ, it's here. And the hour is late. And the war's begun. And we are out here, and the city is there, all wrapped up in its own coat of a thousand colours.
The vividness and the gorgeous urgency of Bradbury's prose creates that skillful drawing that Amis picked up on, and along with it comes a sense of humanity that is striking when you consider some of the other moral fables of science fiction. Putting it next to Brave New World, as I said: while both of them are books about particular ideas, particular ways in which society might become restricted in the name of increasing its members' happiness, I think Farenheit 451 successfully manages to be, over and above this, a book about people. Or at least a person. Montag's inner life is what drives the book, what's lingered on, and what delivers the message. It means that the narrative is smaller, tighter, than the explicit and wide-ranging world-building delivered in Brave New World (which has its own charms, albeit more intellectual ones).
As with a lot of older sci fi (yes, Brave New World had this problem too) there are some serious issues related to the portrayal of women. Montag's wife Mildred isn't quite one-dimensional, but she's never sympathetic; just shrill, pathetic and pitiable. And as the catalyst for Montag's changing views on his occupation, the character of Clarisse just might be the prototypical Manic Pixie Dream Girl: she turns up out of the blue and talks about whimsical things! She tries to get him to expand his horizons and enjoy life! And, tellingly:
...Clarisse's favourite subject wasn't herself. It was everyone else, and me.
Ah, the dream of repressed and empty-souled men everywhere: a pretty young thing whose existence is all about you.
Anyway.
I have to love this novel, because at heart it's about the words with which we choose to fill our lives. Bradbury is telling us his opinion of the importance of books.
Some day the load we're carrying with us may help someone. But even when we had the books on hand, a long time ago, we didn't use what we got out of them. We went right on insulting the dead. We went right on spitting in the graves of all the poor ones who died before us. We're going to meet a lot of lonely people in the next week and the next month and the next year. And when they ask us what we're doing, you can say, We're remembering. That's where we'll win out int he long run. And some day we'll remember so much that we'll build the biggest goddam steam-shovel in history and dig the biggest grave of all time and shove war in and cover it up. Come on now, we're going to go build a mirror-factory first and put out nothing but mirros for the next year and take a long look in them.
The importance, then, seems to be a direct echo of Santayana: Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it. It's an adventure story that's telling us to honour our stories, because they're how we learn about where we've been, and what we look like now, and where we might be heading.
Take a long look in them.
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