Something kinda meh this way comes - A crappy book report

I haven't written a book review in a while. It's been at least 7 years, give or take a couple. I haven't got a clue where to start honestly, so I'm just going to do some spur-of-the-moment writing, be prepared for the deluge of absolute free thought.

I've got on some tunes while I do this. I have the premade Spotify day list "Old Jazz Standards Saturday afternoon" and it's playing Sam Cooke's "Nothing Can Change This Love". Now you want to know what else is on the playlist?! OK, OK. Ella Fitzgerald, Tony Bennett, Peggy Lee, Billie Holiday, Johnny Mathis, Nat King Cole. You know... all the greats.

Can we start now?

I was in an HMV in March and I saw this book with this wild illustration of a carousel horse on the cover. The colours were 70's avocado and mustard, and that colour palette always speaks to me. I picked it up and read "Something Wicked this way comes by Ray Bradbury"; I had no idea who this guy was but I turned it over and read the blurb "dah dah dah carnival, dah dah Halloween, dah dah dah boys coming of age". I put it down and thought "Maybe I'll get it later, I have to get back to my desk." I did get it later, on a rainy day in April a couple of weeks later while in Glasgow for a show. I thought, "It's something to read when I get back to my hotel room and on the train home" - did I read it? NO! Because I am that person.

Anyway, after months of forgetting that I had it, I strategically placed it in the book club reading schedule for October/November. Now I had to read it. Accountability is an amazing thing, isn't it? A quick disclaimer, as of typing this I am suffering from what I think to be a chest infection and I feel horrid. Something else I picked up on another one of my excursions into Glasgow.

I'm a little grouchy and unforgiving. My brain is jam and sponge, my thoughts are cake, and my lungs are drowning in thick lumpy custard, I'm a fucking trifle. I will try to be as kind as I can be between coughing fits.

Let's go!

The first half of the book is incredibly slow, like pulling teeth slow, slow, slow. "Get to the point" slow... but if you are like me, and generally like the more scenic route of storytelling, you'll tolerate the wordy meandering for a while longer than most people. I was so impressed with Bradbury's writing techniques; he's very fond of similes and metaphors, (some people [they exist, I've met them] might say too fond) and replacing verbs for adjectives and vice versa. Again, personally, I enjoyed that aspect of his writing as it gave my brain something to chew on. He knows how to world-build. I think that this piece would translate better as a screenplay due to its pace in the first half and the interpersonal character building, but that's just my opinion - and I know some people might fight me on it ['cause as far as I'm aware the film was dire - but I have no opinion as I haven't seen it].

Overall, I enjoy Bradbury's writing style, it's poetic and the structure of his prose is rhythmic and that just tickles me in all the best ways. Fortunately enough, everything seems to pick up in the second half of it. You know what? It's said that this book splits opinions right down the middle; you either love it or hate it. I disagree. In book club when we discussed it, nearly everyone hated it, and held some animosity towards me for making them read it (I kid, they're my mates; they just made fun of me for being a rainbow sprinkle phlegm-filled doughnut...) and for that, I tried to defend Ray's honour the best I could.

They loathed how long-winded he was, especially in the first half. I argued that, due to it being set in the Arseendofnowhere, Illinois in the 60's, the slowness could be representative of the era and location. As someone who was brought up in the Arseendofnowhere, Ruralvillagefarmland, Scotland, everything is fucking slow - painfully slow. Nothing ever happens and seasons feel like they last forever. Much like right up to Chapter 25... Let's just say this didn't wash with my Townie mates. They will never understand the boredom and limitations of village life. Anyway, that's my slant on it, that it was a storytelling device - (you're welcome Ray).

OK, unpopular opinion time: I kinda feel like he wanted to write a scary story about a carnival at Halloween, and just annexed a different short story at the beginning. I kinda got a little frustrated with some of the more philosophical and preachy monologues, "Ray. Buddy, please. Give it a rest.”

I had to keep reminding myself it was written in 1962, I cannot be judging this by the 2023 standard. It's of its time and I have to be kinder about it, and also Ray is a storyteller and if you dislike a character, maybe just... maybe... that's what he was going for. Maybe. Fucking hell I hope so, 'cause I didn't vibe with any of the characters at all. None of them were likeable in any way, and I couldn't identify with any... and it annoyed me. It's hard to be invested when you're either not represented in any way, or have no likeable character to root for. OK, Charles. Perhaps, but too little, too late... and then he gets preachy. I told you I was grouchy, didn't I? Look, I do get nicer about it as I explain why I struggled to like any of the characters later. This book wasn't written for me and that's fine. There are plenty of things I love that others don't...and that is also perfectly good. But, I'm still gonna say what I think about it...

[I just had a sneezing fit. It wasn't enjoyable. There was a lot of snot involved. She is beauty, she is grace. She has soiled tissue paper stuck to her face. So there, if you disagreed with me just before, I have just been made to suffer. Happy? Good.]

OK, right. Moving on to the meat and potatoes now.

[My nose hurts, like my skin is all dry and cracked and it's just really ouchy. I wanna take a nap...and I want a cup of tea...I think I have some ginger biscuits hanging about too. Hold on. {20 mins later - tea has been made}]

If I remember rightly, Will and Jim were born 2 minutes apart. one on the 30th and the other on the 31st of October. They're next-door neighbours and are more like brothers [twins even], than best friends - which they also are. They have grown up together and know each other just as much as they know themselves... and at 13, turning 14, they realise they have far more to learn. Must be scary for them. I mean, I wouldn't know. I've never been a teenage boy... So, I'll take Ray's word for it. Must be terrifying. All those expectations of ... em, um... not doing bad things. I'm being harsh again. I'm just annoyed at the dripping sexism from this book. The absolute infantilization [literally in one case] of most of the female characters made me roll my eyes. A lot. "1962. 1962. 1962." [breathes deeply - coughs chestily - fuck I'm dying. Help]. I'll get back to this later. Just you watch.

Anyway. The boys complement each other truly, light and dark, white hat and black hat, yin and yang. Will seems to be somewhat happy-go-lucky and can accept whatever life throws at him without second-guessing what the future might hold. Jim has a more Nihilistic point of view, is unable to take his eyes off the future, yearns for it, and just wants to get to the finish line and get results. I don't know, I might be talking right hoo-ha. I think it makes sense. *blows raspberry*

Ok, I took a break from this as I got pretty ill. So, now it's Monday and Spotify is still suggesting slow jazz and crooners and I freaking love it. It's the perfect writing accompaniment to this lampooning of a much-beloved work of fiction. I'm still a little ill and still a little unforgiving. Bare with.

If you hated what I've said so far, you're gonna hate the rest. I'm sorry if you do. It's just my opinion. The world won't end if I don't think it's the classic everyone else seems to think it is. I mean, it inspired a lot of other fantastic horror and thriller writers and that's gotta mean something, right?

Something wicked this way comes is a book written by a Man, for Men... and to be more specific men of a certain age. I don't think this piece will translate well to Gen Z, Alpha, or even younger Millennials who are now in their mid-20s. Ideas and talking points around gender, sexuality, and relationships are everywhere these days - so this book and its overarching tones of manhood and what it is to be a man is just rendered moot. What is a man? In the context of the 60's right up until as far as maybe the early 90's, it was fairly clear and understood what masculinity is/was, and it's always built in opposition to the feminine. Always. Femininity is performative by default, and masculinity is natural. To be a man is to not be a woman. Currently, this understanding is being challenged - and rightfully, but if you've been paying attention on social media you can also see the hypercharged pushback from some men who wish to go back to the rigid definition of masculinity and overt misogyny associated with it. I'll spare you an impromptu gender studies lecture. No one cares for it.

Let me be clear - I am not saying Bradbury was a woman hater - not in the slightest. I am saying the 1960's sexism was built in, institutional, casual - insidious. It was there and Bradbury's writing just echos the time-period. So as much as the sexism in the book irritated me, it was, what it was... this was how women were viewed from a male perspective at the time. I can't argue with it. I don't know enough about the man to condemn him of anything.

I know, my pin jumped forward on the record there just a bit. Let me go back. Bradbury writes cardboard cut-out female characters. Caricatures. Stereotypes. They are either beautiful wives, dutiful mothers, lonely spinsters, or just plain wicked and othered. These women are nothing more than props, which again, it was the 60's and that's what women were expected to be... you were still likely to be diagnosed with hysteria if you were to step outta line. You crazy dust witch, you.

There are no 3-dimensional women here: the ideal female is a young woman suspended in ice. Dead and silent… but beautiful. That is her legacy, her worth. That's it, that is as much of the female experience you'll get in this story. I'm nothing if not fair though. Bradbury probably knew less about being a woman at any age, than I do of being a teenage boy. How can I expect him to do it justice? I mean, not doing it at all might be better than doing it and failing and then ending up on the "men who write women" Twitter timeline. The comment about women sleeping soundly at 3 am because they haven't a worry in the world, their lives are just so peachy and delightful, in contrast to their very clever and selfless husbands taking on all those burdensome nighttime thoughts... Three cheers for quaaludes! Giving women the magical power of being able to block out their own negative emotions.

[side note - if Charles had been prescribed them his kid might not have been kidnapped by Mr. fucking Etch-a-Sketch - seek help, Mr. Halloway. Your mental health is important].

Ok, now that my whining is over. I'll get back on it.

I found the plot a little predictable at times, easy to see where it was going before it even went anywhere. In the notes I kept while reading, I have written - "fucking called it!" a couple of times... The first being when Cooger was on the Merry-go-round. "Toot toot, aren't I clever."

Right, let's get into some of the good shite and wrap this up.

Getting back to why I liked the book, the imagery, the way Bradbury creates a full and moving world inside your head; I loved that. I'm paraphrasing here but when he wrote, "the horse's teeth were the colour of panic" you know exactly what colour of yellow he meant. Ok, it's up for personal interpretation, but that's why you know what colour he means. For me, the colour of panic is pale yellow nicotine, a jaundiced yellowing of the whites of the eyes. That's the yellow. That's panic for me. And it was beautifully conveyed. The way he describes the carnival also was just wonderful; it's cinematic. Which is hard to do within a novel and yet he manages. You could see (well I could anyway) out the boys’ eyes and be in awe of the large temporary structures dwarfing them, and the lazy flapping of tents and flags in the Autumn wind.

When Bradbury introduced the Mirror Maze, the first thing that caught my attention was that it was some metaphor for ageing as the only person troubled by it was Miss Foley. So, I hadn't quite clicked with the gendering of the mirror maze yet; I just put it down to an age thing. This is the note I made: "older people can see their past within the mirror maze, children cannot, as they haven't lived long enough to have anything to look back on, they haven't quite fully developed their sense of self yet. They have nothing to regret or shame about, they only have the future to look forward to - the unknown. The comfortable and nostalgic. Safe. Childhood. The mirror only reveals a cold and distorted past. Anxiety and lost opportunity".

By chapter 22, I've started to catch on to the gendering of the ageing thing, just through Miss Foley's experience [poor Miss Foley she has been stereotyped as that lonely cat lady, hasn't she? I see you, Miss Foley! YOU ARE VALID, GIRL! Bradbury needs to leave this woman alone].

Jim and Will have a discussion in this chapter about growing up and where each of them is going. They both fear growing apart, you know like childhood friends sometimes do. It scared them. Will wishes to stay a boy for a while longer, while Jim wants to just pull off the bandaid and be a man. Just to get on with it. At this moment everything fell into place for me regarding the symbolism.

Clearly, and obviously, the book is about Manhood and masculinity, but it's also distinctly about the fear of ageing, whether growing up and out of boyhood, and taking responsibility for your actions, or edging ever closer to your death and wondering if your existence even mattered. Here in my notes, I wrote: "Men within this book seem to be concerned with their legacy, what are they leaving behind, what are they going to be remembered by, what have they accomplished. Their mark on the world". Other, strong themes here are that boys fear growing up to become their fathers… especially if that father is distant... or unknown, as in Jim's case. This leads me to my next point that Jim throughout the book has been characterised as a bit of a renegade, not aimless, just directionless, and this is due to not having a father figure. He doesn't know how to be a good man, therefore he is susceptible to the draw of the carnival, which in this context, is a metaphor for criminality. Jim keeps hold of his tickets, while Will disgards them. Let's just look at Mr. Cooger, a mean and ruthless man who ends up in the Electric Chair. Who does Mr. Dark want to replace him? Jim. He needs a male role model, as does our Jim. Enter Charles, Will’s dad. This man, even in this novel, is too little too late, IMHO. Anyway, Charles ends up taking Jim under his wing and becomes a substitute father figure to him, which is funny as his son doesn't even feel that connected to him. It's fine, they trauma-bond over some karaoke later on. It's fine, they don't need therapy. I can't. I just can't with this part. It's just too dumb. Anyway, Charlie Boy here, sort of heralds the boys into young manhood, by talking about women in the most derogatory ways. You know. Job done. Women are pretty things, but they do like to gossip.

(Side note: I think I was very sweet and very true [no sarcasm this time] that Bradbury showed that another fear a boy has, is the fear of losing his mother, the fear of watching her age and wither away).

I don't think you'll disagree with me on much, dear reader. [Much].

It's funny how Bradbury presents women as only being concerned about their appearance and youth, rather than their moral footprints on society. Again, look at how he presents Miss Foley. When she looks into the mirror she wishes to save herself, the youthful and pretty version of herself; in her home she's surrounded by pictures of herself in her heyday. A still woman behind the glass. Dead. Whether it's a memory trapped in a funhouse mirror, a photograph in a frame, or a maiden in a block of ice... women are presented as fickle and shallow creatures only concerned with their vanity. I would argue that men are more concerned with women's looks than women are, but OK, I guess? 

The mirror maze is cold, reflective and so symbolic of winter, but also due to Miss Foley's feminine experience within the mirror maze. The carousel not only symbolises summer - fast-paced and joyous, and by its rotation, marks the end of a cycle in a boy’s life. Bradbury, whether consciously or unconsciously, gendered it as masculine. OK from a pagan point of view, this is correct. Winter is Feminine, and Summer is Masculine...but I'm not going to get into that right now. :)

Chapter 38; "I fucking called it!" - The October people. There. Summer. Winter. Now Autumn. OK. Seasons, Ageing, Cycles. Where the fuck Spring went, I don't know, but I guess babies are boring. Babies have no concept of aging or any fear of it... so... whoomp whoomp. What more can I say? Autumn bad. Fall evil. Honestly, if the book started here and removed all the religious stuff, I would have been far more interested in this story. Cause this, this is creepy. This was the good part, but I was so fatigued with the beginning, I became disinterested. Sorry, not sorry. I expected so much more from this point.

Chapter 40: Ableism. Such Ableism makes Shakespeare's evil portrayal of King Richard pale in comparison. I am going to quickly boil this down before I begin to rant about inclusivity and diversity [this is the same pet peeve I have about the AHS freakshow]. The message is that people who are different or weird are like that because they are bad and immoral, and this is just the outward manifestation of it. Don't worry kids, they aren't monsters, just horrible people. Moving on.

I'm just gonna draw a line here cause by this point I felt like everything was a mess, and any meaning that Bradbury might have been leading up to was thrown to the side in favour of a lesson in toxic positivity and the encouragement of suppressing negative emotions. I'm all for looking on the bright side and not dwelling on what could've and should've, but fucking hell! The ending was anticlimactic, confusing, and somewhat meaningless. And it annoyed me. I wanted to read a real conversation between Will and Charles, I wanted Jim to realise he chose the right path and beat the baddies, I expected the shattering of the masculine ego, and I wanted some respect put on Miss Foley's name!

I see what Ray was tryna do, I appreciate it. I understand some people love it, and if I've completely missed the point, please let me know.I would love to have this book explained to me from a different perspective. I wanted to like this book, I really did.

Thank you, Ray Bradbury, for writing this and inspiring so many other amazing writers (but I love their stuff much more than this book).