{"id":9537,"date":"2024-04-16T17:37:43","date_gmt":"2024-04-16T21:37:43","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/?p=9537"},"modified":"2024-04-16T17:37:47","modified_gmt":"2024-04-16T21:37:47","slug":"ray-bradbury-the-pedestrian","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/short-stories\/ray-bradbury-the-pedestrian\/9537\/","title":{"rendered":"Ray Bradbury: The Pedestrian"},"content":{"rendered":"
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“The Pedestrian” by Ray Bradbury is a short story set in a futuristic city in the year 2053. The plot revolves around Leonard Mead, a man who enjoys walking alone through the city streets at night. In a world where television has replaced social interactions and people remain locked inside their homes, Mead’s walks stand out as an unusual activity. The story follows Mead on one of his nighttime walks and explores themes such as conformity, alienation, and the impact of technology on society. Bradbury’s narrative is evocative and reflective, providing a critical look at a dystopian future where basic human activities have become obsolete.<\/p>\n\n<\/div>\n\n

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\"Ray<\/figure>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n

The Pedestrian<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

Ray Bradbury
(Full text)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

To enter out into that silence that was the city at eight o\u2019clock 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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 tomblike building was still open.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Hello, in there,\u2019 he whispered to every house on every side as he moved. \u2018What\u2019s 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?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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 American desert with no house in a thousand miles, and only dry riverbeds, the streets, for company.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018What is it now?\u2019 he asked the houses, noticing his wrist watch. \u2018Eightthirty P.M.? Time for a dozen assorted murders? A quiz? A revue? A comedian falling off the stage?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A metallic voice called to him:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Stand still. Stay where you are! Don\u2019t move!\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He halted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Put up your hands!\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018But\u2014\u2019 he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Your hands up! Or we\u2019ll shoot!\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The police, of course, but what a rare, incredible thing; in a city of three million, there was only one<\/em> police car left, wasn\u2019t 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Your name?\u2019 said the police car in a metallic whisper. He couldn\u2019t see the men in it for the bright light in his eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Leonard Mead,\u2019 he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Speak up!\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Leonard Mead!\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Business or profession?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018I guess you\u2019d call me a writer.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018No profession,\u2019 said the police car, as if talking to itself. The light held him fixed, like a museum specimen, needle thrust through chest.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018You might say that,\u2019 said Mr Mead. He hadn\u2019t written in years. Magazines and books didn\u2019t sell anymore. 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<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018No profession,\u2019 said the phonograph voice, hissing. \u2018What are you doing out?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Walking,\u2019 said Leonard Mead.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Walking!\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Just walking,\u2019 he said simply, but his face felt cold.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Walking, just walking, walking?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Yes, sir.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Walking where? For what?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Walking for air. Walking to see.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Your address!\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Eleven South Saint James Street.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018And there is air in<\/em> your house, you have an air conditioner<\/em>, Mr Mead?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Yes.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018And you have a viewing screen in your house to see with?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018No.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018No?\u2019 There was a crackling quiet that in itself was an accusation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Are you married, Mr Mead?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018No.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Not married,\u2019 said the police voice behind the fiery beam. The moon was high and clear among the stars and the houses were gray and silent.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Nobody wanted me,\u2019 said Leonard Mead with a smile.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Don\u2019t speak unless you\u2019re spoken to!\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Leonard Mead waited in the cold night.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Just walking<\/em>, Mr Mead?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Yes.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018But you haven\u2019t explained for what purpose.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018I explained; for air, and to see, and just to walk.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Have you done this often?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Every night for years.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The police car sat in the center of the street with its radio throat faintly humming.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Well, Mr Mead,\u2019 it said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Is that all?\u2019 he asked politely.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Yes,\u2019 said the voice. \u2018Here.\u2019 There was a sigh, a pop. The back door of the police car sprang wide. \u2018Get in.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Wait a minute, I haven\u2019t done anything!\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Get in.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018I protest!\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Mr Mead.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Get in.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Now if you had a wife to give you an alibi,\u2019 said the iron voice. \u2018But\u2014\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Where are you taking me?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The car hesitated, or rather gave a faint whirring click, as if information, somewhere, was dropping card by punch-slotted card under electric eyes. \u2018To the Psychiatric Center for Research on Regressive Tendencies.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He got in. The door shut with a soft thud. The police car rolled through the night avenues, flashing its dim lights ahead.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018That\u2019s my<\/em> house,\u2019 said Leonard Mead.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

No one answered him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The car moved down the empty riverbed 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

“The Pedestrian” by Ray Bradbury is a short story set in a futuristic city in the year 2053. The plot revolves around Leonard Mead, a man who enjoys walking alone through the city streets at night. In a world where television has replaced social interactions and people remain locked inside their homes, Mead’s walks stand … Read more<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":13152,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"_kad_blocks_custom_css":"","_kad_blocks_head_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_body_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_footer_custom_js":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[559],"tags":[574,552,570],"class_list":["post-9537","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-short-stories","tag-ray-bradbury-en","tag-science-fiction","tag-united-states","generate-columns","tablet-grid-50","mobile-grid-100","grid-parent","grid-33"],"acf":[],"taxonomy_info":{"category":[{"value":559,"label":"Short stories"}],"post_tag":[{"value":574,"label":"Ray Bradbury"},{"value":552,"label":"Science fiction"},{"value":570,"label":"United States"}]},"featured_image_src_large":["https:\/\/lecturia.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/11\/Ray-Bradbury-El-peaton-.jpg",1024,1024,false],"author_info":{"display_name":"Juan Pablo Guevara","author_link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/author\/spartakku\/"},"comment_info":"","category_info":[{"term_id":559,"name":"Short stories","slug":"short-stories","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":559,"taxonomy":"category","description":"","parent":0,"count":424,"filter":"raw","cat_ID":559,"category_count":424,"category_description":"","cat_name":"Short stories","category_nicename":"short-stories","category_parent":0}],"tag_info":[{"term_id":574,"name":"Ray Bradbury","slug":"ray-bradbury-en","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":574,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":43,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":552,"name":"Science fiction","slug":"science-fiction","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":552,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":123,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":570,"name":"United States","slug":"united-states","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":570,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":296,"filter":"raw"}],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/9537","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=9537"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/9537\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/13152"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=9537"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=9537"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=9537"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}