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THE MARTIAN CHRONICLES (Anglais) Broché – 11 septembre 1995

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Descriptions du produit


January 1999: Rocket Summer

One minute it was Ohio winter, with doors closed, windows locked, the panes blind with frost, icicles fringing every roof, children skiing on slopes, housewives lumbering like great black bears in their furs along the icy streets.

And then a long wave of warmth crossed the small town. A flooding sea of hot air; it seemed as if someone had left a bakery door open. The heat pulsed among the cottages and bushes and children. The icicles dropped, shattering, to melt. The doors flew open. The windows flew up. The children worked off their wool clothes. The housewives shed their bear disguises. The snow dissolved and showed last summer's ancient green lawns.

Rocket summer. The words passed among the people in the open, airing houses. Rocket summer. The warm desert air changing the frost patterns on the windows, erasing the art work. The skis and sleds suddenly useless. The snow, falling from the cold sky upon the town, turned to a hot rain before it touched the ground.

Rocket summer. People leaned from their dripping porches and watched the reddening sky.

The rocket lay on the launching field, blowing out pink clouds of fire and oven heat. The rocket stood in the cold winter morning, making summer with every breath of its mighty exhausts. The rocket made climates, and summer lay for a brief moment upon the land. . . .

February 1999: Ylla

They had a house of crystal pillars on the planet Mars by the edge of an empty sea, and every morning you could see Mrs. K eating the golden fruits that grew from the crystal walls, or cleaning the house with handfuls of magnetic dust which, taking all dirt with it, blew away on the hot wind. Afternoons, when the fossil sea was warm and motionless, and the wine trees stood stiff in the yard, and the little distant Martian bone town was all enclosed, and no one drifted out their doors, you could see Mr. K himself in his room, reading from a metal book with raised hieroglyphs over which he brushed his hand, as one might play a harp. And from the book, as his fingers stroked, a voice sang, a soft ancient voice, which told tales of when the sea was red steam on the shore and ancient men had carried clouds of metal insects and electric spiders into battle.

Mr. and Mrs. K had lived by the dead sea for twenty years, and their ancestors had lived in the same house, which turned and followed the sun, flower-like, for ten centuries.

Mr. and Mrs. K were not old. They had the fair, brownish skin of the true Martian, the yellow coin eyes, the soft musical voices. Once they had liked painting pictures with chemical fire, swimming in the canals in the seasons when the wine trees filled them with green liquors, and talking into the dawn together by the blue phosphorous portraits in the speaking room.

They were not happy now.

This morning Mrs. K stood between the pillars, listening to the desert sands heat, melt into yellow wax, and seemingly run on the horizon.

Something was going to happen.

She waited.

She watched the blue sky of Mars as if it might at any moment grip in on itself, contract, and expel a shining miracle down upon the sand.

Nothing happened.

Tired of waiting, she walked through the misting pillars. A gentle rain sprang from the fluted pillar tops, cooling the scorched air, falling gently on her. On hot days it was like walking in a creek. The floors of the house glittered with cool streams. In the distance she heard her husband playing his book steadily, his fingers never tired of the old songs. Quietly she wished he might one day again spend as much time holding and touching her like a little harp as he did his incredible books.

But no. She shook her head, an imperceptible, forgiving shrug. Her eyelids closed softly down upon her golden eyes. Marriage made people old and familiar, while still young.

She lay back in a chair that moved to take her shape even as she moved. She closed her eyes tightly and nervously.

The dream occurred.

Her brown fingers trembled, came up, grasped at the air. A moment later she sat up, startled, gasping.

She glanced about swiftly, as if expecting someone there before her. She seemed disappointed; the space between the pillars was empty.

Her husband appeared in a triangular door. "Did you call?" he asked irritably.

"No!" she cried.

"I thought I heard you cry out."

"Did I? I was almost asleep and had a dream!"

"In the daytime? You don't often do that."

She sat as if struck in the face by the dream. "How strange, how very strange," she murmured. "The dream."

"Oh?" He evidently wished to return to his book.

"I dreamed about a man."

"A man?"

"A tall man, six feet one inch tall."

"How absurd; a giant, a misshapen giant."

"Somehow"--she tried the words--"he looked all right. In spite of being tall. And he had--oh, I know you'll think it silly--he had blue eyes!"

"Blue eyes! Gods!" cried Mr. K. "What'll you dream next? I suppose he had black hair?"

"How did you guess?" She was excited.

"I picked the most unlikely color," he replied coldly.

"Well, black it was!" she cried. "And he had a very white skin; oh, he was most unusual! He was dressed in a strange uniform and he came down out of the sky and spoke pleasantly to me." She smiled.

"Out of the sky; what nonsense!"

"He came in a metal thing that glittered in the sun," she remembered. She closed her eyes to shape it again. "I dreamed there was the sky and something sparkled like a coin thrown into the air, and suddenly it grew large and fell down softly to land, a long silver craft, round and alien. And a door opened in the side of the silver object and this tall man stepped out."

"If you worked harder you wouldn't have these silly dreams."

"I rather enjoyed it," she replied, lying back. "I never suspected myself of such an imagination. Black hair, blue eyes, and white skin! What a strange man, and yet--quite handsome."

"Wishful thinking."

"You're unkind. I didn't think him up on purpose; he just came in my mind while I drowsed. It wasn't like a dream. It was so unexpected and different. He looked at me and he said, 'I've come from the third planet in my ship. My name is Nathaniel York----' "

"A stupid name; it's no name at all," objected the husband.

"Of course it's stupid, because it's a dream," she explained softly. "And he said, 'This is the first trip across space. There are only two of us in our ship, myself and my friend Bert.' "

"Another stupid name."

"And he said, 'We're from a city on Earth; that's the name of our planet,' " continued Mrs. K. "That's what he said. 'Earth' was the name he spoke. And he used another language. Somehow I understood him. With my mind. Telepathy, I suppose."

Mr. K turned away. She stopped him with a word. "Yll?" she called quietly. "Do you ever wonder if--well, if there are people living on the third planet?"

"The third planet is incapable of supporting life," stated the husband patiently. "Our scientists have said there's far too much oxygen in their atmosphere."

"But wouldn't it be fascinating if there were people? And they traveled through space in some sort of ship?"

"Really, Ylla, you know how I hate this emotional wailing. Let's get on with our work."

It was late in the day when she began singing the song as she moved among the whispering pillars of rain. She sang it over and over again.

"What's that song?" snapped her husband at last, walking in to sit at the fire table.

"I don't know." She looked up, surprised at herself. She put her hand to her mouth, unbelieving. The sun was setting. The house was closing itself in, like a giant flower, with the passing of light. A wind blew among the pillars; the fire table

bubbled its fierce pool of silver lava. The wind stirred her russet hair, crooning softly in her ears. She stood silently looking out into the great sallow distances of sea bottom, as if recalling something, her yellow eyes soft and moist. " 'Drink to me only with thine eyes, and I will pledge with mine,' " she sang, softly, quietly, slowly. " 'Or leave a kiss within the cup, and I'll not ask for wine.' " She hummed now, moving her hands in the wind ever so lightly, her eyes shut. She finished the song.

It was very beautiful.

"Never heard that song before. Did you compose it?" he inquired, his eyes sharp.

"No. Yes. No, I don't know, really!" She hesitated wildly. "I don't even know what the words are; they're another language!"

"What language?"

She dropped portions of meat numbly into the simmering lava. "I don't know." She drew the meat forth a moment later, cooked, served on a plate for him. "It's just a crazy thing I made up, I guess. I don't know why."

He said nothing. He watched her drown meats in the hissing fire pool. The sun was gone. Slowly, slowly the night came in to fill the room, swallowing the pillars and both of them, like a dark wine poured to the ceiling. Only the silver lava's glow lit their faces.

She hummed the strange song again.

Instantly he leaped from his chair and stalked angrily from the room.

Later, in isolation, he finished supper.

When he arose he stretched, glanced at her, and suggested, yawning, "Let's take the flame birds to town tonight to see an entertainment."

"You don't mean it?" she said. "Are you feeling well?"

"What's so strange about that?&quo... --Ce texte fait référence à l'édition Poche .

Revue de presse

"Bradbury is an authentic original."—Time magazine --Ce texte fait référence à l'édition Poche .

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Détails sur le produit

  • Broché: 235 pages
  • Editeur : Flamingo; Édition : New Ed (11 septembre 1995)
  • Langue : Français
  • ISBN-10: 0006479235
  • ISBN-13: 978-0006479239
  • Dimensions du produit: 19,6 x 1,3 x 13 cm
  • Moyenne des commentaires client : 4.5 étoiles sur 5  Voir tous les commentaires (4 commentaires client)
  • Classement des meilleures ventes d'Amazon: 410.234 en Livres (Voir les 100 premiers en Livres)
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5 internautes sur 5 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile  Par "ndarre" le 27 décembre 2004
Format: Poche
This book written by Ray Bradbury is an interesting "sequel" to Fahrenheit 451. It tells of mans gradual settlement on Mars as if the stories were written into a journal. The book is about how people are afraid that a war is going to happen on Earth in the year 2001, so hundreds of thousands of people immagrate to Mars and colonize its deserts in order to survive. The stories written by Bradbury are so exquisitely drawn out that one can picture themselves on the sandy dunes of the Red Planet.
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Par wizzie le 13 octobre 2011
Format: Poche
Un indispensable de l'oeuvre de Bradbury, où la féerie le dispute à la poésie. En s'appuyant sur diverses thématiques (peur de l'inconnu, racisme, anticonformisme, affrontement de la solitude ...), Ray Bradbury nous livre un recueil de nouvelles (dont le fil de conducteur est la colonisation de Mars) toujours d'actualité.
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Par kevin wittek le 6 mai 2013
Format: Poche Achat vérifié
Du très bon Bradburry,une vision du futur et de la société du second millénaire probablement surprenante en son temps mais se révélant plus que véridique
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1 internautes sur 2 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile  Par Mika le 15 décembre 2009
Format: Poche Achat vérifié
Suite d'histoire n'ayant pas forcément de lien sinon Mars. Ce livre se laisse dévorer grâce à son ambiance déroutante!
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182 internautes sur 187 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
Great Ironic Social Criticism in Science Fantasy Form 29 décembre 2000
Par Donald Mitchell - Publié sur
Format: Poche
This book clearly deserves more than five stars. It is one of the most moving and important set of observations about our human issues ever written in either science fiction or science fantasy form.
Ray Bradbury wrote these short stories in the late 1940s at a time when we knew almost nothing about Mars. Some scientists even thought there were probably canals and the remnants of a dead or dying Martian civilization on Mars. Written as science fiction originally by Mr. Bradbury, our growing knowledge of Mars makes these assumptions science fantasy today. But don't let that shift rob these stories of their power over you.
But Mars was just the setting for a more serious set of questions. Mr. Bradbury was concerned that the world was too full of hate, war, short-sightedness, and greed to amount to much. He despaired as to whether humans would survive the discovery of the atomic bomb. From this raw material of human excess, he stitched together a powerful vision of our choices -- to operate at our best . . . or our worst. He appeals to our better selves in a vivid way that will be unforgettable to you, if you are like me.
The development of the book has an interesting history. Mr. Bradbury was in his late twenties, and had written quite a few short stories. While visiting New York, he showed his short stories to publishers who liked them. The publishers advised him that there was a market for novels, but not much of one for books of short stories. Then one night it hit him, he had the raw material for a novel about Mars if he simply wrote a few transition stories to fit with ones he had already written. He sat up late that night writing the book proposal, and sold it the next day. That concept became The Martian Chronicles.
Mr. Bradbury had recently read Winesburg, Ohio and was impressed by that book with the potential to use a series of stories as a way to tell a community's history. It seemed natural to use that structure for his Martian book.
The book covers a time period from 1999 through 2026, starting with the first manned expedition to Mars from Earth. The American astronauts do find Martians. The complications of the first four expeditions come from the interactions between humans and Martians, and are unexpected and intriguing. The stories explore the implications of a race being telepathic in very revealing ways.
Much of the human colonization of Mars in the book pits those who want to recreate Earth against those who appreciate what is special about Mars. So exploitation versus conservation is one theme in the book. As a backdrop for the stories, you will read about all of the themes of the Westward migration in the United States from the eradication of the native peoples and culture, to excess exploitation of natural resources, to the desire to be free of "civilized" society.
There are wonderful stories in here against racisim, censorship of books (which became the basis of Mr. Bradbury's later book, "Farenheit 451"), and war.
Towards the end of the book is a lovely sequence of three stories about the various meanings of loneliness. I particularly recommend them. The first looks at men and women seeking each other out when there is no other company. The second considers the loss of a family and how to cope with that. The third looks ruefully at the aftermath of a nuclear holocaust.
The last story in The Martian Chronicles, "The Million-Year Picnic," causes me to shiver and moves me almost to tears every time I think about it. From that story, you will be able to answer the famous question in the book, "Who are the Martians?"
By the way, the book is much better than the movie. If you think you know the story from the movie, I suggest you read the book. If you have a choice of one or the other, I definitely suggest the book.
By the way, years later Mr. Bradbury reviewed this book and commented that the world had turned out much better than he had hoped. He said that would have written a different kind of book on the same subject in the 1970s, but he still had great respect for what the young man he was in his twenties who had written The Martian Chronicles.
The manned exploration of Mars is probably our greatest and most important challenge as a species. Yet, we pay little attention to the question now. I suggest that you use your reading of The Martian Chronicles to help reignite a discussion with those you know of what our goals and methods should be concerning Mars.
Reach for the stars . . . to create the fullest human potential and accomplishments -- morally, spiritually, emotionally, and physically.
40 internautes sur 40 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
This is not Ray Bradbury's Martian Chronicles 17 décembre 2013
Par Hal Sawyer - Publié sur
Format: Poche
This book has been extensively altered from the original and classic Martian Chronicles. All of the dates Bradbury used in the chapter headings have been changed, rendering the Cold War/Atomic Age context of the book meaningless. One of the most important chapters "Way in the Middle of the Air", which establishes the violence and hatred endemic in the American culture which invades Mars has been completely removed from the book. An additional, inferior chapter, "The Fire Balloons" which was never part of the original book, has been put in its place. Don't buy this re-hash, find an older version and buy that.
40 internautes sur 41 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
A Masterpiece 28 mai 2001
Par Bill R. Moore - Publié sur
Format: Poche
The Martian Chronicles is, in many ways, one of science fiction's most important novels. It's deemed an essential read on almost all notable lists, is the book that broke Bradbury into the mainstream, and was the single most widely read SF book during the 1950's. This book is not a novel per se, but rather a collection of separately linked stories that chronicle, in about as many ways as you can imagine, Man's experiences with Mars, hence the title. Though it covers a span of time from 1999-2026, it is, like all great SF, a commentary on the times in which it was written, rather than the times it is set in. This book is a startling example of human folly. In contrast to much science fiction (from The War of the Worlds onward) the Martians in Bradbury's universe are calm, peaceful, and dreamlike (for the most part, anyway) rather than vicious and malicious. This book shows how humans-arrogant, self-righteous, and irrespectful-can and probably will ruin a beautiful, peaceful planet through ignorance and lack of respect. Also in the book are situations depicting ways in which other races we meet in space may react to us. I found these situations to be highly original and imaginative, sometimes we fail to realize that there are other ways for them to react besides peaceful, cooperative tranquility and war. Sprinkled throughout the seriousness of the stories mentioned above, are lighter, somewhat comical tales that liven up the pace a bit. Through fictional situations, this book also manages to comment on such issues as racism, slavery, social life, marriage, etc. A highly interesting read. Though it is a short read (less than 200 pages) it feels like an epic. By the time you are done with the book, you will feel like you have witnessed a saga, a great work of art, a feeling that few books indeed, much less ones this short, manage to accomplish. The last two stories in the book are startling in their differences. There Will Come Soft Rains is an utterly believable, highly pessimistic, and ultimately thought-provoking piece of work followed by The Million Year Picnic, a contrastly optimistic, hopeful story. These two situations are beautiful in their contrast and a fitting ending to a wonderful book.
204 internautes sur 235 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
BEWARE THIS BOOK IS EDITED!! 19 septembre 2002
Par bob - Publié sur
Format: Relié
The William Morrow Hardcover Edition (February 1, 1997) appears to be missing a story: " Way in the Middle of the Air "

Mr. Bradbury wrote a story where all of the black people get fed up with the south, and the way they are treated, load up the rocket and leave all of the bigots behind. Incredibly some paper pushing editor must have thought this story would offend our sensitivities, and took it upon him or herself to remove it from the chronicles.

Strange that the work of Mr. Bradbury, a champion of free speech, is being edited.

Do not get this version! (I got hosed, but vowed to save my fellow readers from the same fate)!
20 internautes sur 20 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
Timeless and Powerful 24 août 2013
Par Robert Russin - Publié sur
Format: Poche
There are some books that defy classification -- they slip from the clenched fists of genre's restrictive grasps, and seem almost above critique. Their sums are greater and longer lasting, more impactful than their parts. They represent some of the best of what the human mind can create, and remain strangely timeless despite the fact that science or culture may surpass their literal truths.

The Martian Chronicles is one such book. Famously referred to by author Ray Bradbury as "a book of stories pretending to be a novel", the disparate parts somehow come together to form something more than a novel. Like Tolkien's war of the ring, this story of the settlement of Mars and its aftermath transcends genre-fiction and somehow becomes more like fictional history -- or, in this case, a cautionary fable.

Throughout these stories, the reader encounters themes of xenophobia, imperialism, censorship, war, and racism (though the story dealing with this most directly, "Way in the Middle of the Air", where, back on Earth, all black people decide to emigrate to Mars, is stupidly cut from many of the later editions). Although Bradbury tends to stick to these broad strokes throughout, rather than focusing on individual characters, there are also stories that chronicle the more personal struggles of violence, fear, loneliness, and isolation. Yet somehow it never manages to get mired down in its own bleak moralizing. Bradbury knows when to apply a light touch, and it never feels as if he is lecturing or proselytizing. In fact, sometimes the tone of the book, while sometimes drifting into Bradbury's trademark syrupy and sentimental nostalgia, sometimes swings unexpectedly into the other extreme, describing deaths, plague, genocide, and near-extinction with an irreverent, almost flippant tone. It's a harsh dichotomy that he employs to great effect throughout these stories. Although Bradbury had one time said, of Kurt Vonnegut, "He couldn't see the world the way I see it. I suppose I'm too much Pollyanna, he was too much Cassandra," and I generally agree with this assessment (Vonnegut could never have written Dandelion Wine, Bradbury could never have written Breakfast of Champions) I think they were occasionally more alike than he realized.

As I said earlier, the sum total of the effect of reading these stories is greater than any individual tale might work as a standalone, but there are definitely some highlights. "The Third Expedition", where Martians use their psychic abilities to greet the arriving Earthlings by projecting images of the hometowns of their childhoods and appearing as their long-lost loved ones in order to lure them into a false sense of complacency before killing them would not be out of place in any horror collection."Usher II" is a tongue-in-cheek cautionary tale about the dangers of censorship and book burning, where reading the stories of Edgar Allan Poe would literally have saved the lives of several murder victims. "The Silent Towns" is a dry tale of gallows humor where the last man on Mars seeks out the last woman, and then runs from her when he realizes she is unattractive. The real emotional punch, though, comes in the last three stories, where we are shown the grim reality of the fact that we have carelessly destroyed not one, but two planets. In true Bradbury fashion, however -- and perhaps this is his most stark difference when contrasted with Vonnegut -- he leaves us with one last glimmer of hope, in one of the most beautiful ending scenes ever written in a sci-fi novel. Or any novel.

The Martian Chronicles is a mirror -- or rather, a twisted series of funhouse mirrors, showing us the uncomfortable and grotesque images of the worst parts of ourselves stretched and distorted and put under a harsh, glaring light. Mars is the backdrop, but is largely inconsequential -- its a stage for Bradbury to put our species on display. Even after the characters and events in these stories start to fade out of your mind, there is something about this work as whole that stays with you for years after reading it. This will be one of those books that you return to periodically at different stages in your life. Reading this now in my 20's was a very different experience from reading it as a 12 year old, and I'm sure reading it again in my 30's will bring an even deeper understanding.

In its Hirsohima-inspired penultimate story, "There Will Come Soft Rains," Bradbury uses the 1920 poem by Sara Teasdale against a chilling backdrop of a silent post-fallout Earth, and these words sum up Bradbury's message here far better than I ever could. Rating: A

There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;
And frogs in the pools, singing at night,
And wild plum trees in tremulous white,
Robins will wear their feathery fire,
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;
And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.
Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree,
If mankind perished utterly;
And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,
Would scarcely know that we were gone.
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