I don't think I have decided if I really actually LIKED Kazuo Ishiguro's Never Let Me Go, or not. Ishiguro's writing, as a character who reveals information slowly and carefully, is so subtle that the impact of the book doesn't hit you until you put it down. The story is itself a fascinating view of future explored in movies like Michael Bay's horribly overwrought (and overly-product-placed) The Island, but much (MUCH) better crafted. A weighty novel that, while not feeling necessarily light, feels carefully deft, and gently handled. Definitely worth a read and a re-read.

I like to research before I read classics or popular books and found some neat stuff I thought I'd share.

Video Interview
Its an interview about how Ray Bradbury came up with the plot for Fahrenheit 451.

Its said that there are 5 short stories that were written before he wrote the book... i was able to find one online.. (if anyone knows where there are more, I'd love to know) As you'll see it goes hand and hand with the interview. I really liked the descrption in it. Anyway... read and share! thanks!

The Pedestrian By Ray Bradbury

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. Leonard Mead most dearly loved to do. 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. 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.
Sometimes he would walk for hours and miles and return only at midnight to his house. 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. 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 tomb-like building was still open.
Mr. Leonard Mead would pause, cock his head, listen, look, and march on, his feet making no noise on the lumpy walk. For 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.
On this particular evening he began his journey in a westerly direction, toward the hidden sea. 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. 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.
“Hello, in there,” he whispered to every house on every side as he moved. “What’s up tonight on Channel 4, Channel 7, Channel 9? Where are the cowboys rushing, and do I see the United States Cavalry over the next hill to the rescue?”
The street was silent and long and empty, with only his shadow moving like the shadow of a hawk in midcountry. If he closed his eyes and stood very still, frozen, he could imagine himself upon the center of a plain, a wintry, windless Arizona desert with no house in a thousand miles, and only dry river beds, the streets, for company.
“What is it now?” he asked the houses, noticing his wrist watch. “Eight-thirty P.M.? Time for a dozen assorted murders? A quiz? A revue? A comedian falling off the stage?”
Was that a murmur of laughter from within a moon-white house? He hesitated, but went on when nothing more happened. He stumbled over a particularly uneven section of sidewalk. The cement was vanishing under flowers and grass. In ten years of walking by night or day, for thousands of miles, he had never met another person walking, not once in all that time.
He came to a cloverleaf intersection which stood silent where two main highways crossed the town. During the day it was a thunderous surge of cars, the gas stations open, a great insect rustling and a ceaseless jockeying for position as the scarab-beetles, a faint incense puttering from their exhausts, skimmed homeward to the far directions. But now these highways, too, were like streams in a dry season, all stone and bed and moon radiance.
He turned back on a side street, circling around toward his home. He was within a block of his destination when the lone car turned a corner quite suddenly and flashed a fierce white cone of light upon him. He stood entranced, not unlike a night moth, stunned by the illumination, and then drawn toward it.
A metallic voice called to him:
“Stand still. Stay where you are! Don’t move!”
He halted.
“Put up your hands!”
“But—” he said.
“Your hands up! Or we’ll Shoot!”
The police, of course, but what a rare, incredible thing; in a city of three million, there was only one police car left, wasn’t that correct? Ever since a year ago, 2052, the election year, the force had been cut down from three cars to one. Crime was ebbing; there was no need now for the police, save for this one lone car wandering and wandering the empty streets. “Your name?” said the police car in a metallic whisper. He couldn’t see the men in it for the bright light in his eyes.
“Leonard Mead,” he said.
“Speak up!”
“Leonard Mead!”
“Business or profession?”
“I guess you’d call me a writer.”
“No profession,” said the police car, as if talking to itself. The light held him fixed, like a museum specimen, needle thrust through chest. “You might say that,” said Mr. Mead. He hadn’t written in years. Magazines and books didn’t sell any more. Everything went on in the tomblike houses at night now, he thought, continuing his fancy. The tombs, ill-lit by television light, where the people sat like the dead, the gray or multicolored lights touching their faces, but never really touching them. “No profession,” said the phonograph voice, hissing. “What are you doing out?”
“Walking,” said Leonard Mead.
“Walking!”
“Just walking,” he said simply, but his face felt cold.
“Walking, just walking, walking?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Walking where? For what?”
“Walking for air. Walking to see.”
“Your address!”
“Eleven South Saint James Street.”
“And there is air in your house, you have an air conditioner, Mr. Mead?”
“Yes.”
“And you have a viewing screen in your house to see with?”
“No.”
“No?” There was a crackling quiet that in itself was an accusation.
“Are you married, Mr. Mead?”
“No.”
“Not married,” said the police voice behind the fiery beam. The moon was high and clear among the stars and the houses were gray and silent.
“Nobody wanted me,” said Leonard Mead with a smile.
“Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to!”
Leonard Mead waited in the cold night.
“Just walking, Mr. Mead?”
“Yes.”
“But you haven’t explained for what purpose.”
“I explained; for air, and to see, and just to walk.”
“Have you done this often?”
“Every night for years.”
The police car sat in the center of the street with its radio throat faintly humming.
“Well, Mr. Mead,” it said.
“Is that all?” he asked politely.
“Yes,” said the voice. “Here.” There was a sigh, a pop. The back door of the police car sprang wide. “Get in.”
“Wait a minute, I haven’t done anything!”
“Get in.”
“I protest!”
“Mr. Mead.”
He walked like a man suddenly drunk. As he passed the front window of the car he looked in. As he had expected, there was no one in the front seat, no one in the car at all.
“Get in.”
He put his hand to the door and peered into the back seat, which was a little cell, a little black jail with bars. It smelled of riveted steel. It smelled of harsh antiseptic; it smelled too clean and hard and metallic. There was nothing soft there.
“Now if you had a wife to give you an alibi,” said the iron voice. “But—”
“Where are you taking me?”
The car hesitated, or rather gave a faint whirring click, as if information, somewhere, was dropping card by punch-slotted card under electric eyes. “To the Psychiatric Center for Research on Regressive Tendencies.”
He got in. The door shut with a soft thud. The police car rolled through the night avenues, flashing its dim lights ahead.
They passed one house on one street a moment later, one house in an entire city of houses that were dark, but this one particular house had all of its electric lights brightly lit, every window a loud yellow illumination, square and warm in the cool darkness.
“That’s my house,” said Leonard Mead.
No one answered him.
The car moved down the empty river-bed streets and off away, leaving the empty streets with the empty sidewalks, and no sound and no motion all the rest of the chill November night.

Found here: http://lifesucks.dk/425

I really loved this book, even more than Anthem or The Giver because it seemed a little bit more realistic. Reading about dystopic environments really makes me think about where the world is headed. Especially this one because of issues surrounding censorship. I can't decide if I would be the passionate radical Montag or a silent conspirator Faber. I like it the ending was somewhat open because it gives you hope, but you could doubt it working too. Whichever you choose can happen with Montag, Faber, Granger, and the rest of the rebels.

"That's the good part of dying; when you've nothing to lose, you run any risk you want." -Montag p.85

"Most of us can't rush around, talk to everyone, know all the cities of the world, we haven't the time, money or that many friends. The things you're looking for, Montag, are in the world, but the only way the average chap will ever see 99% of them is in a book." -Faber p.86

"Everyone must leave something behind when he dies. A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. It doesn't matter what you do so long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that's like you after you take your hands away." -Granger p.156-7

"Live as if you'd drop dead in ten seconds. See the world. It's more fantastic than any dream made or paid for in factories." -Granger p.157

BLURB
Guy Montag is a fireman who burns books in a futuristic American city. In Montag’s world, firemen start fires rather than putting them out. The people in this society do not read books, enjoy nature, spend time by themselves, think independently, or have meaningful conversations. Instead, they drive very fast, watch excessive amounts of television on wall-size sets, and listen to the radio on “Seashell Radio” sets attached to their ears.

Montag encounters a gentle seventeen-year-old girl named Clarisse McClellan, who opens his eyes to the emptiness of his life with her innocently penetrating questions and her unusual love of people and nature. Over the next few days, Montag experiences a series of disturbing events. First, his wife, Mildred, attempts suicide by swallowing a bottle of sleeping pills. Then, when he responds to an alarm that an old woman has a stash of hidden literature, the woman shocks him by choosing to be burned alive along with her books.

A few days later, he hears that Clarisse has been killed by a speeding car. Montag’s dissatisfaction with his life increases, and he begins to search for a solution in a stash of books that he has stolen from his own fires and hidden inside an air-conditioning vent.

A must read for a reason - this classic incorporates two of my least favourite concepts - stranglehold governments and the burning of books - into a compelling political story of intrigue and mystery.

Bradbury's writing style is fantastic. I really got into his book. Even after finishing the book I couldn't stop thinking. Kinda freaked myself out.

Enjoyed reading this. Had that "old book" feel for me. Kinda like Vonegut. Enjoyed the author's notes at the end.

Some books get all these great awards, and some are good, but I just don't like some of the others. Put simply, The House of the Scorpion deserved each of the three awards on the cover. I was drawn into this book by the desperate and bright younge boy who is shunned, but doesn't know why. Eventually he learns the amazing/horrifying truth about himself, and is on a mission. I love this book, one of my favorites, and that is saying a lot.

Nancy Farmer does it again. This book is a page turner. It contains very warm and solid characters. I also love the book because although it is a science fiction book, it focuses on the development of the characters rather that the continuous mention of gargets as in other science fiction books. My only criticism of the book is that it is a little bit predictable. Apart from some a few surprises in the end, I could predict exactly how it ended. I highly recommend this book for anyone who loves science fiction books with good character development.

This was an absolute masterwork, and this was prior to Moore's "Watchmen." The literary and metatextual nods and allusions are worth the read, not to mention the thought and multiple layering that is Moore's stock-in-trade.

The character of "V" is one of my favorites in that he hardly has one. He is a symbol more than a man, and often alludes to this in both the book and the titular movie. It's something of a pity that Evie doesn't always have enough literary knowhow to realize he IS saying this.

Moore's use of multiple story lines to encompass a far more complicated world is as sharp as his work in "Watchmen" if not more so. The many characters from different perspectives throw this dark and bleak world into even more stunning contrast.

This book is definitely recommended for more mature readers, although with sufficient guidance someone at the early high school levels could read this for its entire content. Top notch, and worth reading for any reader, period.