Dear Ray,

I am sorry to hear about the loss of your wife Marguerite. I think it was in 7th grade, in fact, while I was a student in Mr. McClure's math class, that you came and lectured at Portola Jr. Highschool. I had been reading so many of your books, at the time. You were in my Uncle Robert Meyler's yearbook at Los Angeles Highschool, too, maybe a class behind or ahead of him.
I have read so many of your books, and enjoyed them so much. It is sad to hear about the quarrel you have with Michael Moore (re: "Fahrenheit 911"), although I understand your feelings. I am sure that he intended an honest tribute to what he obviously considers a masterwork, but ended up infringing. I even suspect James Joyce of "stealing" Stephen Dedalus and Leopold Bloom from the likes of Stephen Hawking and Kip Thorne, perhaps via time-travel through some wormhole, somewhere. I have also seen lots of things (movies, books, record albums) derivative of my experiences and ideas, as well, and it always annoys me a little. No attorney I have ever talked to has been able to help.
My solution? Do it to them.... I enclose a little story I finished today, below, which is an example, perhaps inspired by some of your ideas:



"Feeding the Plant"

The Plant arrived in my backyard one day, propelled along the connecting cosmic string by its own modus, depositing itself in the soil of my home's sloping backyard, and finding purchase there, sending out its Venus Flytrap-like leaves to photosynthesize our Sun's light in its new planet's atmosphere, hungrily awaiting greater nourishment.

Upon first seeing the green foot-long leaves that resembled the Earth-variety carnivorous plant we are all familiar with (which is generally quite a bit smaller), I had some fury at yet another alien invader in my backyard. Yet, with a sage and cautionary word from a friend of the family, Otis Chandler, owner of the L.A. Times (my mother called him "Citizen Cane" because he had a slight
handicap of telling fibs upon which he relied too heavily, as a crutch), I was eventually persuaded to dig an irrigation channel which would nourish the creature (a "water gate," as it were). An occasional bird, coyote, or other animal would fall into its grasp (out of mere curiousity), and enable the Plant to grow, while the water source continued to be replenished with my periodic dousings. So, despite my inattentive efforts at showing "a green thumb", this hardy bit of interstellar foliage persisted in its quiet quest for life.

Within just a few weeks, the Plant had grown to be ten feet tall. And, if I recall correctly, it was at this point that my second
cousin (Nobel Agriculturalist Norman Borlaug) began to make himself a familiar in my backyard, with his frequent excursions
(via ladder) to the uppermost lip of the tendrilled plant whose closed leaves resembled the interlaced fingers and hands of those in prayer (in its digestive state). Usually he brought bags of fertilizer, mulch, and some small dead birds or dogs as offerings for his "little monster," as he playfully referred to it. Norman was occupied with the task of enabling the Plant's "Realization," he often said. I never quite understood what he meant, except that he seemed to believe that "the Plant is something beyond us". Generally, the glassy look of his eyes was enough to dissuade me from the effort of argument or questioning....

Even, a year or two later, when the Plant eventually "took off" and landed in Chicago, announcing itself as Emperor of the Planet (deposing me, as you might remember), I still harbored an affinity, and I took its flight to (and consumption of) that city as perhaps just a quirk, foible, or whim that had been acted upon indiscriminantly (when the Plant's reason, logic, or wisdom might have been persuaded to act elsewise).

Still, the Army's best efforts weren't enough to halt the Plant's progress; New York, Rome, Paris, Tokyo, Moscow, all fell to the jaws of the Plant. Nothing could be done. And, with the impending invasion of the Borg Cube so swiftly upon our fleeing species' heels, the "final solution" of submission to the Emperor Plant was perhaps the best and wisest course. Really, I don't have that many regrets, although I was both the first and the last to endorse the World of "Life after Death" inside the Plant.

For indeed, within the magical, mystical World of the Plant, there was a Life after Death. The Plant had evolved beyond our mere species' grasp, with the God-like and incredibly benign ability to consume life and yet portray an illusion of the persistence of Reality for the life-forms and souls that had perished within its maw. Plato's "Prisoners of the Cave" parable couldn't have been more accurately written, in an attempt to describe the "Matrix"-like world of simulated life inside the Plant. "Death, where is thy sting?" writes Montaigne, and it is this sentiment that accompanies our plunge into the bowels, or bivalved leaves, of the Plant. The Buddhistic world of illusory/delusory Reality called "Maya" had nothing on what the Plant could achieve routinely. Histories of whole stellar systems were encoded in the genetic memories of the Plant, along with the other life-forms that all its ancestors had already devoured. Every piece of information ever generated by any civilization, and any trace of any life-form that ever lived on any planet that the Plant (or its ancestors) had encounted, was automatically part of the Plant's "repertoire" of simulated Virtual Reality.

Meet the Plant, and die! Then live in the Worlds of the Plant's memories and devising.... For ever, and ever, and ever....

Worship the Plant. Thank the Plant. Feed the Plant. Our souls dwell within the Plant. Yes, of course, you say, since you have
already realized this so long ago; and I thank you for your silent agreement. Since the dead don't speak, we need not speak about this (nor can we, apparently).

How does one feed the Plant?

Since the Plant is but an organism, like ourselves, although vast (many orders of magnitude greater than we are to an amoeba, perhaps), one relieves the Plant of the strain and stress of maintaining the copious illusion of life for its consumed victims by
simultaneously removing some large number of victims within the mere illusion we call Reality. These 'cleansings' or 'erasures' are done for purely economic reasons, with no malice intended -- economic necessity with no desire to hurt or harm.

Events like Chernobyl, Bhopal, the North Korean train accident, "9/11" (and so on), are all good examples of how to feed the Plant -- as was the wonderful and propitious Iraq War. Even "Iran-contra" brought a chortle of glee from our Green Savior, I modestly
recall. Anytime a hefty chunk of the population can be removed from the illusory life-support system of the Plant, the resources of the Plant are less taxed, and the Plant is happier. This, of course, fellow dead souls, is a boon for us all. We shall rejoice in the liberation of those souls' energies, and share the benefits together, as a collective.

We all have at least a ghost of a chance to succeed, so long as we proceed along this course. And, of course, we shall all remain gratefully dead within the bowels of the Plant.

Long live the Plant!


Best Regards,
Nicholas Meyler

Nice letter, great story! Feed me, Seymour!

I think you are saying the plant is like Michael Moore, eating everything in sight. Is this the interpretation you were going for?

Nicholas, unusually nice sentiments well-expressed. When and where did your classroom experience take place, and do you happen to know, was Mr. McClure related to Marguerite? It might help to explain someone's memory of Ray serving as their substitute teacher--although it's my understanding that Ray made a practice of giving "one-time" lectures only to classes, and then mostly at universities. Perhaps he made such a deep impression people thought he substituted for a long time?

Thank you for enjoying my story. I may have expressed myself awkwardly (you apparently misunderstood) re: Mr. McClure, who was a regular teacher for our math class in 7th grade. I was remarking on the similarity of names between Charles McClure and Marguerite McClure, obviously.

In fact, I was wondering if there was any relationship, just a bit. The other thing is that, Ray (who did lecture for the school), gave the lecture in a building (auditorium) which was immediately next to the math class.

So, so much for the confusion, and I hope I have dispelled it. On the other hand, Bradbury could have been a teacher, in a manner of speaking, for all of those that read him. So, he was sort of "a substitute",
for us.

On the question of my story, I did intend the Plant to be evocative of the Media, and how it tends to devour people rather consciencelessly, but I don't want to limit it to that, either. The reader's imagination is welcome to invent other interpretations....

By the way, if I recall correctly, Ray lectured at Portola Jr. High in 1972 (but, it could have been 1973 or 1974, possibly).
My memory compresses it back to 1972, for reasons discussed above.

Dear Mr. Bradbury,

In light of your efforts to compel Michael Moore to apologize for borrowing his "Fahrenheit 911" title from your story "Fahrenheit 451," we are writing to inquire into the status of your own public apologies regarding your works entitled "Something Wicked This Way Comes," "I Sing the Body Electric!," "No Man is an Island" and "Remembrance of Things Future."

Sincerely,
Messrs William Shakespeare, Walt Whitman, John Donne, and Marcel Proust

Once again, stinker. Netiquette. Classless and boorish -- just like Moore.

Stinker,
Good point, but how many of these men were alive to oppose Ray's titles? At least Ray had the good sense to wait until they were dead, right?

groon - My point is that it is wholly legitimate for Moore to reference Mr. Bradbury's title in his own work, because that is simply one of the conventions by which literature (or films) are cerated - by building on the ideas of others, and using them to draw parallels, metaphors, commentray, or whatever. Mr. Bradbury is just as "guilty" (not that I think it's wrong to do so) of that as Michael Moore, if not more so. For him to cry out against it is massively hypocritical.

Other guy who complained - like I said above, I think my post goes directly to the central misunderstanding that people have about what Moore is doing. I wanted to make sure everyone who complained about it saw it. Poor netiquette, perhaps, but that's not as important as making sure that people see it and have a chance to process it.

As I pointed out in another board, none of Ray's works, I believe, have entered into the public domain. Anything prior to 1923 is in the public domain. This is the law. The law exists to protect the author to the rights of their work (copywright, trademark, etc.) Nobody, including any hopeful usurper, can attempt to paint their picture over a masterwork and claim it is theirs. Let the law survive and protect us all.

chas - as I pointed out in another post, those laws are all entirely inapplicable to this situation. Why do I get the impression that you are not particularly interested in the legality of the issue anyway?

I'm not sure that there aren't legal issues involved, actually. Copyright means protection of unique expression, and "F911" is quite possibly too similar to "F451" to be legal altogether. It really could be plagiarism, technically, and Bradbury might not happen to agree with Moore's position. Using the title in that manner does assume that Bradbury endorses Moore's position (or it might be inferred). So, I think Bradbury has a very solid point. On the other hand, "Citizen Kane" by Orson Welles obviously referred to William Randolph Hearst (Hearse) via puns, etc. And, while I met Hearst's copyright attorney (Larry Mitchell) and my family knew him for fifty years, I didn't bother to ask him what Hearst wanted to do about that case.... I should have, I gather. Such things only occur to us in retrospect, unfortunately.