Ray Bradbury: A Love Story. Ray Bradbury Love Story Ray Bradbury Love Story

"A Love Story" by Ray Bradbury is included in the collection "Summer Morning. Summer Night”, which was published in 2007. If you believe the annotations, then this collection is the 3rd part of the cycle, begun by the novel “Dandelion Wine”, after 50 years continued by another novel “Summer, Goodbye”.

The stories from this collection are an amazing combination of warmth, softness, sadness, a sense of time: its irreversibility, immutability in its course. Such a narrative is actually like a glass of wine that you slowly sip, sitting on the veranda alone on a warm summer evening, peering into the advancing twilight. This wine is slightly sweet, tart, fragrant, heady, evoking nostalgia or melancholy, resurrecting faded memories, blurring the line between reality and forgotten dreams.

“The Tale of Love” is one of the variations on the story told in the novel “Dandelion Wine” by journalist William Forester and Miss Ann Loomis. An interesting observation - this story is described in many stories by Ray Bradbury.

“It's very important that we understand what's going on, don't you agree?
- Probably, yeah.
- First of all, let's admit that we are the best, greatest friends in the world. We admit that I have never had such a student as you, and I have never treated any boy so well. - At these words Bean blushed. And she continued: - And let me tell you - you think you've never met such a nice teacher.

Oh no, much more, he said.
- Maybe more, but we must face the truth, we must remember what is accepted, and think about the city, about its inhabitants, and about you and me. I've been thinking about all this for many days, Bob. Don't think that I've overlooked anything or that I'm not aware of my feelings. Under certain circumstances, our friendship would indeed be strange. But you are an extraordinary boy. It seems to me that I know myself well and I know that I am quite healthy, both in body and soul, and whatever my attitude towards you, it arose because I appreciate in you an outstanding and very good person, Bob. But in our world, Bob, that doesn't count unless we're talking about an adult. I don't know if I'm talking clearly.
“All clear,” he said. “It's just that if I were ten years older and thirty centimeters taller, everything would turn out differently,” he said, “but it's stupid to judge a person by height.
But everyone thinks it's reasonable.
“But I am not everything,” he objected.
"I know you think it's ridiculous," she said. - After all, you feel like an adult and right, and you know that you have nothing to be ashamed of. You really have nothing to be ashamed of, Bob, remember that. You were perfectly honest and clean, and hopefully I was too.
"Yeah, you too," he confirmed.
- Perhaps someday people will become so reasonable and fair that they will be able to accurately determine the spiritual age of a person and will be able to say: “This is already a man, although his body is only thirteen years old,” - by some miraculous coincidence, fortunately, this is a man, with a purely masculine consciousness of the responsibility of his position in the world and his duties. But until then, there's still a long way to go, Bob, and for now, I'm afraid, we can't ignore age and height, as it is now in our world.
“I don't like it,” he said.
“Perhaps I don’t like it either, but you don’t want to get much worse than you are now, do you?” You don't want us both to be unhappy, do you? And this cannot be avoided. Believe me, you and I can’t think of anything ... it’s already unusual that we are talking about you and me.
- Yes, ma'am.
- But at least we understand everything about each other and understand that we are right and honest, and behaved with dignity, and there is nothing bad in the fact that we understand each other, and we did not even think about anything bad, because we just don’t imagine anything like that, do we?
- Yes, sure. But I can't help myself.
“Now we have to decide what to do next,” she said.”

"A Love Story", Ray Bradbury (collection "Summer Morning. Summer Night")

***

That was the week Ann Taylor came to teach at the summer school in Greentown. She was then twenty-four, and Bob Spaulding was not yet fourteen.

Ann Taylor was remembered by everyone and everyone, because she was the same teacher to whom all the students tried to bring the most beautiful orange or pink flowers and for whom they hurried to fold the green and yellow rustling maps of the world even before she had time to ask for them. She was the girl who always seemed to pass through the old city in green shade, under the arches of oaks and elms, walking with iridescent shadows gliding across her face, and soon she was attracting all eyes to herself. She was like summer incarnate—wonderful peaches in the midst of a snowy winter, like cool milk to corn flakes early in the June heat. If you wanted to set someone as an example, Ann Taylor immediately came to mind. And the rare fine days, when everything in nature is in balance, like a maple leaf, supported by light breezes of a beneficial breeze, a few of these days were like Ann Taylor and her name and should have been called on the calendar.

And as for Bob Spaulding, he is akin to those boys who wander around the city alone on October evenings, and the fallen leaves rush after him, like a flock of mice on the eve of All Saints' Day, and you can also see him in the spring on Fox Creek, when he swims leisurely in chilly waters, like a big white fish, and by autumn his face is reddened and shiny, like a chestnut. Or you can hear his voice in the tops of the trees where the wind blows; and now he is already descending from branch to branch and sitting alone, looking at the world, and then you can see him in the clearing - for long afternoons he sits alone and reads, and only ants crawl through books, or plays with himself on his grandmother's porch playing chess, or picking up a melody for him alone on the black piano by the window. You won't see him with other guys.

That first morning, Miss Ann Taylor entered the classroom through the side door, and as she wrote her name on the blackboard in a nice round hand, none of the children moved.

My name is Ann Taylor,” she said softly. I am your new teacher.

It seemed as if the room was suddenly flooded with light, as if a roof had been raised, and bird voices rang out in the trees. Bob Spaulding was holding a freshly made ball of chewed paper in his hand. But after listening to Miss Taylor for half an hour, he quietly opened his fist and dropped the ball on the floor.

That day, after school, he brought a bucket of water and a rag and began cleaning the boards.

What are you? Miss Taylor turned to him, she was sitting at the table and checking notebooks.

The boards are kind of dirty,” Bob replied, continuing his work.

Yes I know. Do you really want to wash them?

I should probably have asked permission,” he said, and paused in embarrassment.

Let’s pretend that you asked,” she said with a smile, and, seeing this smile, he finished the boards with lightning speed and began to shake the rags out of the window so frantically that it seemed it was snowing outside.

Yes ma'am.

Well, Bob, thanks.

May I wash them every day? - he asked.

Maybe others should try?

I want it myself,” he said, “every day.

Okay, wash it for a few days, and then we'll see, ”she said.

He didn't leave.

I think it's time for you to go home," she finally said.

Goodbye. He reluctantly walked out of the classroom and disappeared through the door.

The next morning he found himself at the house where she rented an apartment with a boarding house, just as she left to go to school.

And here I am,” he said.

Imagine, I'm not surprised, she said.

They went together.

May I carry your books? he asked.

Well, Bob, thanks.

Nothing," he said, and took the books.

They walked like this for several minutes, and Bob was silent the whole way. She glanced at him a little from top to bottom, saw how he was walking - relaxed, joyful, and decided to let him speak first, but he did not speak. They reached the schoolyard and he gave her the books.

I think I'd better go alone now," he said. “And the guys still don’t understand.

I don't think I understand either, Bob," said Miss Taylor.

Well, we are friends,” Bob said seriously, with his usual frankness.

Bob…” she began.

Yes, ma'am?

There is nothing. And she walked away.

I'm in class,” Bob said.

And he went to class, and for the next two weeks he stayed every evening after classes, not saying a word, silently washing the boards, and shaking out rags, and folding cards, and meanwhile she checked notebooks, there was silence in the classroom, the time was four, silence that hour when the sun is slowly sinking, and the rags slap one against the other softly, like a cat steps, and water drips from the sponge with which they wipe the boards, and the turning pages rustle, and the pen creaks, and sometimes the fly buzzes, striking in impotent anger about tall transparent window glass. Sometimes there is silence until almost five, and Miss Taylor suddenly notices that Bob Spaulding is frozen in the back bench, looking at her and waiting for further orders.

Well, it's time to go home,” Miss Taylor will say, rising from the table.

Yes ma'am.

And rush for her hat and coat. And a ban instead of her class, unless later that day the watchman should come. Then they will leave the school and cross the courtyard, already empty at this hour, and the watchman slowly folds the stepladder, and the sun hides behind the magnolias. What they didn't talk about.

What do you want to be, Bob, when you grow up?

A writer, he replied.

Well, this is a lofty goal, it requires a lot of work.

I know, but I want to try,” he said. — I read a lot.

Look, don't you have something to do after school, Bob?

What are you talking about?

About how, in my opinion, it’s not good for you to spend so much time in the classroom, washing the blackboards.

And I like it,” he said, “I never do what I don’t like.

And still.

No, I can’t do otherwise,” he said. He thought for a moment and then added: "May I ask you, Miss Taylor?"

It depends.

Every Saturday I walk from Butrick Street along the creek to Lake Michigan. There are so many butterflies, and crayfish, and birds. Maybe you will go too?

Thank you, she replied.

So are you going?

I am afraid it is not.

After all, that would be so much fun!

Yes, of course, but I'll be busy.

He wanted to ask what she was doing, but bit her tongue.

I take sandwiches with me,” he said. — With ham and pickles. And orange pop. And I just walk along the river bank, so slowly. By noon I am at the lake, and then I go back and at three o'clock I am already at home. The day turns out so good, I wish you would go too. Do you have butterflies? I have a large collection. You can start collecting for you too.

Thanks, Bob, but no, maybe some other time.

He looked at her and said:

Shouldn't have asked you, right?

You have the right to ask for anything, she said.

A few days later she found her old book Great Expectations, which she no longer needed, and gave it to Bob. He gratefully took the book, took it home, did not close his eyes all night, read it from beginning to end, and in the morning spoke about what he had read. Now he met her every day not far from her house, but in such a way that they would not see him from there, and almost every time she began: "Bob ..." - and she wanted to say that there was no need to meet her anymore, but she kept silent, and they walked to and from school and talked about Dickens and Kipling and Poe and other writers. On Friday morning, she saw a butterfly on her desk. And I was about to frighten her away, but it turned out that the butterfly was dead and they put it on the table while Miss Taylor left the classroom. She glanced over the heads of the students at Bob, but he was staring at the book; didn't read, just stared at the book.

Around this time, she suddenly found herself unable to get Bob to answer. Leads a pencil down the list, stops at his name, hesitates, and calls someone before or after him. And when they go to or from school, they can't look at it. But on other days, when, raising his hand high, he erased mathematical formulas from the blackboard with a sponge, she caught herself looking up from her notebooks and looking at him for long moments.

And then, one Saturday morning, he was leaning over in the middle of the stream, his trousers rolled up to his knees, catching crayfish under a rock, suddenly looked up, and on the bank, by the very water, was Miss Ann Taylor.

Here I am,” she said with a laugh.

Guess I'm not surprised, he said.

Show me crayfish and butterflies, she asked.

They went to the lake and sat on the sand, Bob a little way away from her, the breeze played with her hair and frills of her blouse, and they ate sandwiches with ham and pickles and solemnly drank orange pop.

Wow and great! - he said. - It has never been so great!

I never thought I'd be at a picnic like this,” she said.

With some kid,” he said.

But still good.

They hardly spoke anymore.

It’s all wrong,” he later said. Why, I can't understand. Just walk around, catch all sorts of butterflies and crayfish and eat sandwiches. But if my mother and father found out, and the guys too, I would not be in trouble. And other teachers would laugh at you, right?

I'm afraid so.

Then maybe we'd better stop catching butterflies.

I don’t understand how it happened that I came here,” she said.

And that day is over.

That's about all that happened in Anne Taylor's meetings with Bob Spelling - two or three Danaid butterflies, a Dickens book, a dozen crayfish, four sandwiches and two bottles of orange pop. The next Monday before school, Bob waited outside Miss Taylor's house, but for some reason he didn't. It turned out that she had left earlier than usual and was already at school. And she left the school too early, she had a headache, and the last lesson was held by another teacher instead of her. Bob walked around her house, but she was nowhere to be seen, and he did not dare to ring the doorbell and ask.

On Tuesday evening, after school, they were both again in the hushed classroom, Bob complacency, as if there would be no end to this evening, wiping the blackboards with a sponge, and Miss Taylor sat and checked notebooks, also as if there would be no end to this peaceful silence, this happiness. And suddenly there was a sound of the clock on the courthouse. A booming bronze ringing was heard a quarter from the school, it shook the whole body and crumbled the dust of time from the bones, it penetrated into the blood, and it seemed that you were aging every minute. Stunned by these blows, you can no longer help but feel the destructive flow of time, and as soon as it struck five, Miss Taylor suddenly raised her head, looked at her watch for a long time and put down her pen.

Bob, she said.

He turned around in fear. Not a word was spoken by any of them during this whole peaceful hour.

Come, please, she begged.

He slowly put down his sponge.

Okay.

Sit down, Bob.

Okay, ma'am.

She stared at him for a moment, and he finally turned away.

Bob, do you have any idea what I want to talk to you about? Guess?

Maybe it's better if you tell me yourself first?

He did not answer immediately:

How old are you, Bob?

Fourteenth year.

Still thirteen.

He grimaced.

Yes ma'am.

How old am I, do you know?

Yes ma'am. I have heard. Twenty four.

Twenty four.

In ten years I'll be almost twenty-four too,” he said.

But now you, unfortunately, are not twenty-four.

Yes, but sometimes I feel like I'm twenty-four.

And sometimes you even act like you're twenty-four.

Yes, is it true?

Sit still, don't fidget, we have a lot to talk about. It's very important that we understand what's going on, don't you agree?

Probably, yeah.

First of all, let's admit that we are the best, greatest friends in the world. We admit that I have never had such a student as you, and I have never treated any boy so well. Bob blushed at these words. And she went on: "And let me tell you for you - you don't think you've ever met such a nice teacher."

Oh no, much more,” he said.

Maybe more, but we must face the truth, we must remember what is accepted, and think about the city, about its inhabitants, and about you and me. I've been thinking about all this for many days, Bob. Don't think that I've overlooked anything or that I'm not aware of my feelings. Under certain circumstances, our friendship would indeed be strange. But you are an extraordinary boy. It seems to me that I know myself well and I know that I am quite healthy, both in body and soul, and whatever my attitude towards you, it arose because I appreciate in you an outstanding and very good person, Bob. But in our world, Bob, that doesn't count unless we're talking about an adult. I don't know if I'm talking clearly.

Everything is clear,” he said. “It’s just that if I were ten years older and thirty centimeters taller, everything would turn out differently,” he said, “but it’s stupid to judge a person by height.

But everyone thinks it's reasonable.

And I'm not everything,” he objected.

I know you think it's ridiculous," she said. “After all, you feel like an adult and right, and you know that you have nothing to be ashamed of. You really have nothing to be ashamed of, Bob, remember that. You were perfectly honest and clean, and hopefully I was too.

Yes, you too,” he confirmed.

Perhaps someday people will become so reasonable and just that they will be able to accurately determine the spiritual age of a person and will be able to say: “This is already a man, although his body is only thirteen years old,” - by some miraculous coincidence, fortunately, this a man with a purely masculine consciousness of the responsibility of his position in the world and his duties. But until then, there's still a long way to go, Bob, and for now, I'm afraid, we can't ignore age and height, as it is now in our world.

I don't like it,” he said.

Maybe I don't like it either, but you don't want to get much worse than you do now, do you? You don't want us both to be unhappy, do you? And this cannot be avoided. Believe me, you and I can’t think of anything ... it’s already unusual that we are talking about you and me.

Yes ma'am.

But at least we understand everything about each other and understand that we are right and honest, and behaved with dignity, and there is nothing bad in the fact that we understand each other, and we didn’t even think about anything bad, because nothing We just don't imagine that, do we?

Yes, sure. But I can't help myself.

Then maybe transfer you to another school?

It's not necessary, he said.

Why?

We move. We will now live in Madison. We are moving next week.

Not because of all this, no?

No, no, it's all right. It's just that my father got a job there. Madison is only fifty miles away. When I come to town, I will be able to see you, right?

Do you think this is reasonable?

No, probably not.

They still sat in silence.

When did it happen? Bob asked helplessly.

I don't know, she replied. “No one ever knows. For thousands of years no one knows and, in my opinion, will never know. People either love each other or they don't, and sometimes love occurs between those who don't need to love each other. I can't understand myself. And you yourself, of course, too.

I should probably go home,” he said.

You're not angry with me, are you?

Well, no, I can't be angry with you.

One more thing. I want you to remember that life always pays back. Always, otherwise it would be impossible to live. You're sick now, and so am I. But then some joy will surely come. Do you believe?

It would be good.

Believe me, it's true.

If only…” he said.

What if?

If you had waited for me,” he blurted out.

Ten years?

I'll be twenty-four then.

And I'm thirty-four, and, probably, I will become completely different. No, I don't think it's possible.

Would you like to? he exclaimed.

Yes, she answered quietly. “It’s stupid, and nothing would come of it, but I really, really would like to…”

For a long time he sat in silence. And finally said:

I will never forget you.

You said nicely, but this will not happen, life is not arranged that way. You will forget.

I will never forget. I’ll think of something, but I’ll never forget you,” he said.

She got up and went to wipe the boards.

I will help you,” he said.

No, no, she said hastily. “Go away, Bob, go home, and don’t wash the blackboards after school anymore.” I'll entrust this to Ellen Stevens.

He left the school. In the yard I turned around for the last time and through the window I saw Miss Ann Taylor again - she was standing at the blackboard, slowly erasing the words written in chalk, her hand moving up and down, up and down.

He left the city the following week and has not been there for sixteen years. He lived some fifty miles away and yet he had never been to Greentown, but one spring, when he was in his late thirties, he and his wife stopped in Greentown for a day on their way to Chicago.

He left his wife at the inn, and he himself went to wander around the city and finally asked about Miss Ann Taylor, but at first no one could remember her, and then someone said:

Ah, yes, that pretty teacher. She died in '36, shortly after you left.

Did she get married? No, I don't remember being married.

In the afternoon he went to the cemetery and found her grave. "Ann Taylor, born 1910, died 1936," was written on the tombstone. And he thought: twenty-six years. Why, I'm three years older than you now, Miss Taylor.

Later that day, Greentowners saw Bob Spaulding's wife walking towards him, walking under the elms and oaks, and everyone turned and looked after her - she walked, and iridescent shadows slid across her face; she was like the embodiment of summer - marvelous peaches - in the midst of a snowy winter, like cool milk to corn flakes in the early early June heat. And it was one of those few days when everything in nature is in balance, like a maple leaf that floats motionless in a light breeze, one of those days that, by all accounts, should be called the name of Bob Spalding's wife.

Translation: R. Oblonskaya

It was the week Ann Taylor came to teach at the summer school in Greentown. She was then twenty-four, and Bob Spaulding was only fourteen.

Everyone remembers Ann Taylor well, because she was the teacher to whom all the children wanted to bring huge oranges or pink flowers and for whom they themselves, without reminders, folded yellow-green rustling cards. She was the girl who seemed to always walk past you in those days when the green shade thickened under the arches of oaks and elms in the old city, she walked, and bright shadows slid across her face, and soon all eyes were fixed on her. She was like ripe summer peaches in a snowy winter, like cool milk to corn flakes on a hot early June morning. Every time you wanted something opposite, Ann Taylor was always there. And those rare days when everything in nature is in balance, like a maple leaf supported by the breeze, those days were like Ann Taylor, and in fairness in the calendar they should have been named after her.

As for Bob Spaulding, he was one of those boys who wanders alone in the city on October evenings, bringing up a pile of fallen leaves that circle after him like a flock of mice on All Saints' Eve, or you could see him sunbathing on in the sun, like a sluggish white fish jumping out of the chilly waters of the Fox Creek, so that by autumn his face would acquire the glow of a roasted chestnut. One could hear his voice in the treetops where the wind frolics; clutching the branches with his hands, he descends, and here he is, Bob Spaulding, sitting alone, looking at the world; and then he can be seen in the clearing alone reading for long afternoons, and only ants crawling over his books; or on the porch of his grandmother's house he plays chess with himself, or he selects a melody known to him alone on the black piano by the open window.

Bradbury Ray

A story about love

Ray Bradbury

A story about love

That was the week Ann Taylor came to teach at the summer school in Greentown. She was then twenty-four, and Bob Spaulding was not yet fourteen.

Ann Taylor was remembered by everyone and everyone, because she was the same teacher to whom all the students tried to bring the most beautiful orange or pink flowers and for whom they hurried to fold the green and yellow rustling maps of the world even before she had time to ask for them. She was the girl who always seemed to pass through the old city in green shade, under the arches of oaks and elms, walking with iridescent shadows gliding across her face, and soon she was attracting all eyes to herself. She was like the embodiment of summer - wonderful peaches - in the middle of a snowy winter, like cool milk to corn flakes in the early early June heat. If you wanted to set someone as an example, Ann Taylor immediately came to mind. And the rare fine days, when everything in nature is in balance, like a maple leaf, supported by light breezes of a beneficial breeze, a few of these days were like Ann Taylor and her name and should have been called on the calendar.

And as for Bob Spaulding, he is akin to those boys who wander around the city alone on October evenings, and the fallen leaves rush after him, like a flock of mice on the eve of All Saints' Day, and you can also see him in the spring on Fox Creek, when he swims leisurely in chilly waters, like a big white fish, and by autumn his face is reddened and shiny, like a chestnut. Or you can hear his voice in the tops of the trees where the wind blows; and now he is already descending from branch to branch and sitting alone, looking at the world, and then you can see him in the clearing - for long afternoons he sits alone and reads, and only ants crawl through books, or plays with himself on his grandmother's porch playing chess, or picking up a melody for him alone on the black piano by the window. You won't see him with other guys.

That first morning, Miss Ann Taylor entered the classroom through the side door, and as she wrote her name on the blackboard in a nice round hand, none of the children moved.

My name is Ann Taylor,” she said softly. - I'm your new teacher.

It seemed as if the room was suddenly flooded with light, as if a roof had been raised, and bird voices rang out in the trees. Bob Spelling held a freshly made chewed paper ball in his hand. But after listening to Miss Taylor for half an hour, he quietly opened his fist and dropped the ball on the floor.

That day, after school, he brought a bucket of water and a rag and began cleaning the boards.

What are you? Miss Taylor turned to him, she was sitting at the table and checking notebooks.

The boards are kind of dirty, - Bob answered, continuing his work.

Yes I know. Do you really want to wash them?

I should probably have asked for permission,” he said, and paused in embarrassment.

Let's pretend that you asked, - she said with a smile, and, seeing this smile, he quickly finished with the boards and began to shake the rags out of the window so frantically that it seemed that it was snowing outside.

Well, Bob, thanks.

May I wash them every day? - he asked.

Maybe others should try?

I want myself, - he said, - every day.

Okay, wash it for a few days, and then we'll see, ”she said.

He didn't leave.

I think it's time for you to go home," she finally said.

Goodbye. He reluctantly walked out of the classroom and disappeared through the door.

The next morning he found himself at the house where she rented an apartment with a boarding house, just as she left to go to school.

Here I am, he said.

Imagine, I'm not surprised, she said.

They went together.

May I carry your books? he asked.

Well, Bob, thanks.

Nothing, - he said and took the books.

They walked like this for several minutes, and Bob was silent the whole way. She glanced at him a little from top to bottom, saw how he was walking - relaxed, joyful, and decided to let him speak first, but he did not speak. They reached the schoolyard and he gave her the books.

I think I'd better go alone now," he said. - And then the guys still do not understand.

I don't seem to understand either, Bob," said Miss Taylor.

Well, we are friends, - Bob said seriously, with his usual frankness.

Bob…” she began.

There is nothing. - And she walked away.

I'm in class, said Bob.

And he went to class, and for the next two weeks he stayed every evening after classes, not saying a word, silently washing the boards, and shaking out rags, and folding cards, and meanwhile she checked notebooks, there was silence in the classroom, the time was four, silence that hour when the sun is slowly sinking, and the rags slap one against the other softly, like a cat steps, and water drips from the sponge with which they wipe the boards, and the turning pages rustle, and the pen creaks, and sometimes the fly buzzes, striking in impotent anger about tall transparent window glass. Sometimes there is silence until almost five, and Miss Taylor suddenly notices that Bob Spaulding is frozen in the back bench, looking at her and waiting for further orders.

Well, it's time to go home," Miss Taylor will say, getting up from the table.

And rush for her hat and coat. And a ban instead of her class, unless later that day the watchman should come. Then they will leave the school and cross the courtyard, already empty at this hour, and the watchman slowly folds the stepladder, and the sun hides behind the magnolias. What they didn't talk about.

What do you want to be, Bob, when you grow up?

A writer, he replied.

Well, this is a lofty goal, it requires a lot of work.

I know, but I want to try, he said. - I read a lot.

Look, don't you have something to do after school, Bob?

What are you talking about?

About how, in my opinion, it’s not good for you to spend so much time in the classroom, washing the blackboards.

And I like it, - he said, - I never do what I don't like.

And still.

No, I can't do it any other way, he said. He thought for a moment and added: May I ask you, Miss Taylor?

It depends.

Every Saturday I walk from Butrick Street along the creek to Lake Michigan. There are so many butterflies, and crayfish, and birds. Maybe you will go too?

Thank you, she replied.

So are you going?

I am afraid it is not.

After all, that would be so much fun!

Yes, of course, but I'll be busy.

He wanted to ask what she was doing, but bit her tongue.

I take sandwiches with me,” he said. - With ham and pickles. And orange pop. And I just walk along the river bank, so slowly. By noon I am at the lake, and then I go back and at three o'clock I am already at home. The day turns out so good, I wish you would go too. Do you have butterflies? I have a large collection. You can start collecting for you too.

Thanks, Bob, but no, maybe some other time.

He looked at her and said:

Shouldn't have asked you, right?

You have the right to ask for anything, she said.

A few days later she found her old book Great Expectations, which she no longer needed, and gave it to Bob. He gratefully took the book, took it home, did not close his eyes all night, read it from beginning to end, and in the morning spoke about what he had read. Now he met her every day not far from her house, but in such a way that they would not see him from there, and almost every time she began: "Bob ..." - and wanted to say that there was no need to meet her again, but she kept silent and they walked to and from school and talked about Dickens and Kipling and Poe and other writers. On Friday morning, she saw a butterfly on her desk. And I was about to frighten her away, but it turned out that the butterfly was dead and they put it on the table while Miss Taylor left the classroom. She glanced over the heads of the students at Bob, but he was staring at the book; didn't read, just stared at the book.

Around this time, she suddenly found herself unable to get Bob to answer. Leads a pencil down the list, stops at his name, hesitates, and calls someone before or after him. And when they go to or from school, they can't look at it. But on other days, when, raising his hand high, he erased mathematical formulas from the blackboard with a sponge, she caught herself looking up from her notebooks and looking at him for long moments.

And then, one Saturday morning, he was leaning over in the middle of the stream, his trousers rolled up to his knees - catching crayfish under a stone, suddenly looked up, and on the bank, by the very water - Miss Ann Taylor.

Here I am,” she said with a laugh.

Imagine, I'm not surprised, he said.

Show me crayfish and butterflies, she asked.

They went to the lake and sat on the sand, Bob a little way away from her, the breeze played with her hair and frills of her blouse, and they ate sandwiches with ham and pickles and solemnly drank orange pop.

Wow and great! - he said. - Never been so great!

I never thought I'd be at a picnic like this," she said.

With some boy,” he said.

Ray Bradbury's love story

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Title: Story of love

About "A Tale of Love" by Ray Bradbury

Ray Bradbury is certainly one of the best storytellers of the 20th century. His books are very popular all over the world, almost equally among critics and ordinary readers.

During the period of his creative activity, the writer managed to create several hundred beautiful stories. He also wrote novels, plays and poetry. Many of the stories he told later formed the basis of successful film adaptations. Most critics consider him a classic of science fiction literature, but some of his works can also be attributed to other genres. His books should be read, first of all, by those who once again want to be convinced of the incredible talent and unique power of imagination of the recognized master of artistic mystification.

One of the main achievements of the writer is the fact that he managed to interest millions of readers with rather unusual topics that used to be on the periphery of public consciousness.

Ray Bradbury knew how to create stories that combined incredible warmth with slight melancholy and quiet sadness in an absolutely amazing way. The author dealt with time and its slow flow in a peculiar way, using the resulting gaps to tell about his characters, who seem to live in their own world. His creative style has always been distinguished by unhurried narration and original plot moves.

"The Tale of Love" can be seen as one of the many variations on the story from Dandelion Wine. The author tries to convey the feelings of a thirteen-year-old teenager who suddenly falls in love with a young teacher and does it perfectly.

The topic of relationships between people with a big difference in age has always caused and still continues to cause heated discussions in society. Ray Bradbury wrote an excellent story about how sometimes some feelings come at the wrong time and nothing can be done about it. “A Story of Love” is a story of very sincere and friendly relations between people who initially cannot show any “excessive” feelings for each other.

On our site about books, you can download the site for free without registration or read online the book "The Story of Love" by Ray Bradbury in epub, fb2, txt, rtf, pdf formats for iPad, iPhone, Android and Kindle. The book will give you a lot of pleasant moments and a real pleasure to read. You can buy the full version from our partner. Also, here you will find the latest news from the literary world, learn the biography of your favorite authors. For novice writers, there is a separate section with useful tips and tricks, interesting articles, thanks to which you can try your hand at writing.

Quotes from "A Love Story" by Ray Bradbury

Drink infinity brew
Catch eternity with your lips
You will find both a dream and courage,
And a thousand faces of love.

They say that if you want to write a story, do not predetermine its topic. Write - and only. When you write, you will know what it is about.

She was the girl who always seemed to pass through the old city in green shade, under the arches of oaks and elms, walking with iridescent shadows gliding across her face, and soon she was attracting all eyes to herself. She was like the embodiment of summer - wonderful peaches - in the middle of a snowy winter, like cool milk to corn flakes in the early early June heat.

In the afternoon he went to the cemetery and found her grave. "Anne Taylor, born 1910, died 1936," was written on the tombstone. And he thought: twenty-six years. Why, I'm three years older than you now, Miss Taylor.

And the rare fine days, when everything in nature is in balance, like a maple leaf, supported by light breezes of a beneficial breeze, a few of these days were like Ann Taylor and her name and should have been called on the calendar.

I will never forget you.
- You said nicely, but this will not happen, life is not arranged like that. You will forget.
- I will never forget. I’ll think of something, but I’ll never forget you, ”he said.

People either love each other or they don't, and sometimes love occurs between those who don't need to love each other.

Here I am,” she said with a laugh.
"I'm not surprised," he said.

To love is to live forever, for love is immortal. Hearing about love is never a burden, hearing a declaration of love will never get tired. From these words, a person is resurrected again and again.