He listened to the faint push of his soft shoes through autumn leaves with satisfaction, and whistled a cold quiet whistle between his teeth, occasionally picking up a leaf as he passed, examining its skeletal pattern in the infrequent lamplights as he went on, smelling its rusty smell. There was a good crystal frost in the air it cut the nose and made the lungs blaze like a Christmas tree inside you could feel the cold light going on and off, all the branches filled with invisible snow. On this particular evening he began his journey in a westerly direction, toward the hidden sea. Leonard Mead would pause, cock his head, listen, look, and march on, his feet making no noise on the lumpy walk.įor long ago he had wisely changed to sneakers when strolling at night, because the dogs in intermittent squads would parallel his journey with barkings if he wore hard heels, and lights might click on and faces appear and an entire street be startled by the passing of a lone figure, himself, in the early November evening. Sudden gray phantoms seemed to manifest upon inner room walls where a curtain was still undrawn against the night, or there were whisperings and murmurs where a window in a tomblike building was still open. And on his way he would see the cottages and homes with their dark windows, and it was not unequal to walking through a graveyard where only the faintest glimmers of firefly light appeared in flickers behind the windows. Sometimes he would walk for hours and miles and return only at midnight to his house. 2053, or as good as alone, and with a final decision made, a path selected, he would stride off, sending patterns of frosty air before him like the smoke of a cigar.
He would stand upon the corner of an intersection and peer down long moonlit avenues of sidewalk in four directions, deciding which way to go, but it really made no difference he was alone in this world of A.D. To enter out into that silence that was the city at eight o’clock of a misty evening in November, to put your feet upon that buckling concrete walk, to step over grassy seams and make your way, hands in pockets, through the silences, that was what Mr. I will let the reader read it and enjoy it. Here is the full text of the masterpiece. And, of course, credit to the great master Ray Bradbury for providing this work of art for our inspiration and pleasure. At one time, I must have had five books containing this story.Ĭredit to the wonderful people at Mother Earth News for posting it where a smuck like myself can read it within China. Cost is no object when it comes to these masterpieces. When ever I find one, I certainly snatch it up. It is very difficult to come across Ray Bradbury books in China. Later, when I left the United States, and moved to China, I had to leave my treasured books behind. Introductionįor years I had amassed a well worn, and dusty collection of Ray Bradbury paperbacks that I would pick up and read for pleasure and inspiration. Ray Bradbury is one of my personal heroes and his writings greatly influenced me in ways that I am only just now beginning to understand. This story was copyrighted in 1951 by Ray Bradbury, and presented here under Article 22 of China’s Copyright Law.
THE PEDESTRIAN BY RAY BRADBURY FULL TEXT MOVIE
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