Something Wicked This Way Comes
Reviews
such a sweet halloween read, charles halloway could talk forever and i’d probably listen for at least half that long
So creepy!
It's a collection of related horror short stories. For a long time I had it shelved next to Agatha Christie's By the Pricking of My Thumbs.
He said #lovewins
Bradbury is overrated. Something wicked this way comes, something wicked gives us a lecture on the magic of reading, and then something wicked goes to sit in the corner like that kid from 11th grade math class who was always picking his scabs. Weird book, weird style, implausible plot.
A mesmerizing, wild ride. Dark and spooky, poetic and thoughtful, campy and inventive.
a perfect october read, and my favorite ray bradbury to date. immensely lush language, wildly unconventional and vivid imagery. entirely whimsical, magical, autumnal, nostalgic, spooky, thoughtful, heartwarming and suspenseful. GOD i loved it.
Something Wicked This Way Comes is magical, creepy, poignant, and remarkably life-affirming amidst the constant darkness and illusion of the mysterious October carnival of Cooger and Dark. The sweetness of night air in Autumn is tempting to all. It turns out that everyone is probably a little good and a little evil, but we can choose who we want to be and which side we want to win, even if we feel and seem perfectly ordinary. These pages seem to hold the inspiration for almost everything Stephen King has ever written, yet it still makes a twisted kind of sense that Ray Bradbury dedicated it to Gene Kelly. I don't know how I've never read this before. I *think* The Martian Chronicles is still my favorite Ray Bradbury, but this may supplant it.
Bradbury didn't disappoint. Great book.
oh i loved this so much
By pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes He structured this story as screen play at the beginning, therefore the descriptions make you feel like you’re in a movie. And It was what I need for the halloween season; Bradbury’s poetic, dark October carnival.
I think this is the Stephan Rudnicki narration. That's the version we listened to. I've seen the movie a couple of times. TBH, I think I find Bradbury easier to listen to in story format than in novel. Most of this book was excellent, though it did have some slow parts. But the Bradbury magic shines through.
Don’t get me wrong, I love an adjective, but this book has too many. At first the over-use of descriptors was charming and vivid. And then it eventually took away 100% of the creep-factor. Meh.
definitely a wild ride and hard to read it was literally a fight against water man
Rating: 8.9/10 Reading this book felt like being in a bad dream. Ray Bradbury has an almost ethereal writing style, unlike anyone else I've read, that creates a mystical little town which is suddenly overtaken by Cooger and Dark's Pandemonium Circus. Bradbury really lets your imagination do the heavy lifting but at the same time, makes the story flow effortlessly towards its discomforting conclusion. It was hard to get into this initially due to the almost abstract way Bradbury likes to write, but once I let myself get engrossed in the world, I couldn't stop reading. I really liked it and will definitely make an effort to read more of Bradbury's work.
*2.5
Beautiful writing about themes with real depth: friendship, fathers and sons, the monkey's paw, aging (how old you are v. how old you feel v. how old you want to be), and morality. A quick read after a few chapters to catch the book's rhythm
So poetic. Especially for a novel about a creepy carnival run by an Illustrated Man. No one writes quite like Bradbury.
___________________________________
That was the entirety of my review when I first read this little book in 2015. And you know what? I think that might be enough.
Or, it should be. But you know me. I always have opinions to share.
I have this deep but slightly conflicted love for Ray Bradbury. It started when I was in high school, when I first read Fahrenheit 451 and one of his short stories, “A Sound of Thunder,” nearly back to back. I was entranced by both stories, but something about the actual writing itself stumped me. While I really enjoyed the cadence of it, and found it often beautiful, there were some stylistic choices and outdated colloquialisms that threw me. I think this is a common complaint when reading backlist books, particular those written more than 40 years ago. And, judging from personal reading experience, the issue of outdated slang tends to be more of a complaint with less formal works, such as Bradbury’s stories. But while digging through the prose can be a bit of a struggle, it’s one that is not only immensely rewarding, but one that becomes easier the more often you do it.
That’s the case for me with this book in particular. I appreciated it when I first read it. However, revisiting it was a radically different experience. Because I knew where the story was going this time, I didn’t feel the need to sift through the prose; I could just enjoy it for what it was. Which made the story even more enjoyable, and powerful, than it was for me the first time I read it.
On the surface, this is the story of Will Halloway and Jim Nightshade, next-door neighbors and best friends, who were born two minutes apart. This is the story of the October they were thirteen, when an ominous carnival came to town. This is the story of the carnival threatening to tear them apart as it offered to fulfill dark dreams, and how they fought to stay together. But that’s not what this story is to me. No, for me, this is the story of Charles Halloway, Will’s father. This is the story of experiences deferred and how the fear of losing your life can keep you from ever truly living it. It’s the story of facing your demons in the mirror and finding reasons to laugh and keep on living anyway. It’s the story of accepting yourself, faults and all, and enjoying the life you have instead of wasting it trying to recapture what you’ve lost. If there’s a hero to this story, it is definitely Charles Halloway.
Bradbury broached some incredibly deep topics here, but in ways that never, in my opinion, detracted in any way from the plot. The many forms temptation takes, and how it dresses itself up differently to appeal to each person, was one of my favorite themes. Others included how good triumphs over evil not by might, but by purity of heart; how difficult transitional ages can be, whether from boy to man or middle-aged to elder; the power of belief and joy in the face of darkness; and the importance of connection, regardless of age. There’s so much food for thought in this little book.
Aside from the outdated colloquialisms that I mentioned above, and how certain writing choices threw me out of the plot on occasion, I really only have one complaint about this book: the pacing. There were certain scenes that felt rushed, while others would have been a good deal stronger if shortened by a few pages. But the atmosphere here was second-to-none, and I don’t know that I can think of any other book that so perfectly encapsulates an entire season to me. Something Wicked This Way Comes is nostalgia in book form, autumn contained in less than 300 pages.
Another reason I love Something Wicked This Way Comes is because I can so clearly see how it, and the rest of Bradbury’s catalogue, influenced other authors I love. As I was reading, I found shades of King and Koontz and Gaiman, and I loved reading something that I know they, not only read, but were changed by in some way. Some of the most powerful, important books in my life are the ones I know help inspired other stories I adore.
There’s something so special about Bradbury’s work in general, and this book in particular. The way a 60 year-old book can make me feel nostalgic for a time I’ve never personally known is more than a little magical. And there’s just something about a creepy carnival that captures the imagination. If you’ve never read Something Wicked This Way Comes, I highly recommend it. In my opinion, it’s the perfect October read. And if you’ve read it in the past but it’s been a while, I encourage you to revisit it; I’m very glad that I did.
A very interesting book by one of the writers who made me wan to be a writer
Perfect to revisit this little gem from Ray Bradbury for the month of October and Halloween.
2 1/2 stars. I love Ray Bradbury’s science fiction stories, I don’t think I’m a fan of his foray into horror though. This overall plot made no sense to me and wasn’t helped by Bradbury’s flowery language.
After being disappointed by the much hyped Night Circus I decided I needed to reach for the Good Stuff. Now that was a story about a dark carnival! Good vs. evil. The twilight of innocence. The lure of youth. The meaning of friendship. And the hardships of parenthood. Ray Bradbury doesn't take a theme and leave it floundering in a coffee shop with a mellowed out devil in a gray suit. No. He builds an evil Merry-go-Round and smashes it into the ground while spinning wildly 'round to Camp Town Ladies and Oh Susanna. He gives us spells and dust witches and clever philosophy and eloquent speeches AND good plot. I feel so much better.
4.5/5 ⭐️ Wow wow wow. Where do I start with this book? This book was an enchanting, mesmerizing, delicious experience. This is the first Ray Bradbury book I’ve ever read. His control of words, the way he describes things, I’ve never read anything like it. One of my particular favorite passages was from page 58, when he is describing being awake at 3 A.M. “Oh God, midnight’s not bad, you wake and go back to sleep, one or two’s not bad, you toss but sleep again. Five or six in the morning, there’s hope, for dawn’s just under the horizon. But three, now, Christ, three A.M.! Doctors say the body’s at low tide then. The soul is out. The blood moves slow. You’re the nearest to dead you’ll ever be save dying. Sleep is a patch of death, but three in the morn, full wide-eyed staring, is living death! You dream with your eyes open. God, if you had strength to rouse up, you’d slaughter your half-dreams with buckshot! But no, you lie pinned to a deep well-bottom that’s burned dry. The moon rolls by to look at you down there, with its idiot face. It’s a long way back to sunset, a far way on to dawn, so you summon all the fool things of your life, the stupid lovely things done with people known so very well who are now so very dead – And wasn’t it true, had he read somewhere, more people in hospitals die at 3 A.M. than at any other time...” The story itself was beautifully crafted as well, and I never at any point found myself able to guess what was going to happen next. This was such a fun Autumn-themed spooky read. Just spooky enough for me. The singular reason this book is not five complete stars is solely for the fact that occasionally the constant extremely descriptive language distracts from the actual story. This isn’t a book you can read quickly. If you want to actually comprehend everything you’re reading, and savor all of the beautiful words that Bradbury uses, you have to read it slowly. Overall, I really enjoyed this book and can’t wait to read more of his work!
This spooky story is a treasure of halloween literature
Highlights
Like all boys, they never walked anywhere, but named a goal and lit for it, scissors and elbows. Nobody won. Nobody wanted to win. It was in their friendship they just wanted to run forever, shadow and shadow. Their hands slapped library door handles together, their chests broke track tapes together, their tennis shoes beat parallel pony tracks over lawns, trimmed bushes, squirrelled trees, no one losing, both winning, thus saving their friendship for other times of loss.
Nobody won. Nobody wanted to win. It was in their friendship they just wanted to run forever, shadow and shadow. Their hands slapped library door handles together, their chests broke track tapes together. their tennis shoes beat parallel pony tracks over lawns, trimmed bushes, squirreled trees, no one losing, both winning, thus saving their friendship for other times of loss.
That's friendship, each playing the potter to see what shapes we can make of the other.
Why love the boy in a March field with his kite braving the sky? Because our fingers burn with the hot string singeing our hands. Why love some girl viewed from a train, bent to a country well? The tongue remembers iron water cool on some long lost noon. Why weep at strangers dead by the road? They resemble friends unseen in forty years. Why laugh when clowns are hit by pies? We taste custard, we taste life.
"It's late. Must be midnight straight up."
Obediently, the City Hall clock, the Baptist church clock, the Methodist, the Episcopalian, the Catholic church, all the clocks, struck twelve. The wind was seeded with Time.
So the carnival steams by, Shakes any tree: it rains jackasses. Separate jack-asses, I should say, individuals with no one, they think, or no one actual, to answer their "Help!” Unconnected fools, that's the harvest the carnival comes smiling after with its threshing machine.
A stranger is shot in the street, you hardly move to help. But if, half an hour before, you spent just ten minutes with the fellow and knew a little about him and his family, you might just jump in front of his killer and try to stop it. Really knowing is good. Not knowing, or refusing to know, is bad, or amoral, at least. You can't act if you don't know. Acting without knowing takes you right off the cliff.
So, in sum, what are we? We are the creatures that know and know too much. That leaves us with such a burden again we have a choice, to laugh or cry. No other animal does either. We do both.
A carnival should be all growls, roars like timberlands stacked, bundled, rolled and crashed, great explosions of lion dust, men ablaze with working anger, pop bottles jangling, horse buckles shivering, engines and elephants in full stampede through rains of sweat while zebras neighed and trembled like cage trapped in cage.
But this was like old movies, the silent theater haunted with black-and-white ghosts, silvery mouths opening to let moonlight smoke out, gestures made in silence so hushed you could hear the wind fizz the hair on your cheeks.
More shadows rustled from the train, passing the animal cages where darkness prowled with unlit eyes and the calliope stood mute save for the faintest idiot tune the breeze piped wandering up the flues.
Jim knew every centimeter of his shadow, could have cut it out of tar paper, furled it, and run it up a flagpole—his banner.
Dad’s voice was a midnight school, teaching deep fathom hours, and the subject was life.
She rose up suddenly and went to put the window down.
“Why do boys want their windows open wide?"
“Warm blood.”
"Warm blood." She stood alone. “That's the story of all our sorrows. And don't ask why.”
The odd thing in dad’s voice was the sound truth makes being said. The sound of truth, in a wild roving land of city or plain country lies, will spell any boy.
“There was only one thing sure. Two lines of Shakespeare said it. He should write them in the middle of the clock of books, to fix the heart of his apprehension:
By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes.”
This book appears on the shelf Children s
This book appears on the shelf Wishlist
This book appears on the shelf Books from my youth
