Green Shadows, White Whale: A Novel of Ray Bradbury's Adventures Making Moby Dick with John Huston in Ireland
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In 1953, the brilliant but terrifying titan of cinema John Huston summons the young writer Ray Bradbury to Ireland. The apprehensive scribe's quest is to capture on paper the fiercest of all literary beasts -- Moby Dick -- in the form of a workable screenplay so the great director can begin filming.
But from the moment he sets foot on Irish soil, the author embarks on an unexpected odyssey. Meet congenial IRA terrorists, tippling men of the cloth impish playwrights, and the boyos at Heeber Finn's pub. In a land where myth is reality, poetry is plentiful, and life's misfortunes are always cause for celebration, Green Shadows, White Whale is the grandest tour of Ireland you'll ever experience -- with the irrepressible Ray Bradbury as your enthusiastic guide.
threading his ash-red hair, plastering it over his skull, rivuleting his eyebrows, and washing over the coal-black insect lenses of the glasses on his rain-pearled nose. Down through the greaves of his cheeks, the lines about his mouth, and off his lips, like a storm on a gargoyle's flint, the weather ran. His sharp chin shot the guzzle in a steady fauceting off in the air, down his tweed scarf and locomotive-colored coat. "Why doesn't he wear a hat?" I demanded. "Why," said John, "maybe he
Doone did just that. The others followed, their faces assuming a darker tone as they passed through. The sun, as if to observe this, moved behind a cloud, and a sweet breeze came up for some moment of relief. "There's the hole." The priest nodded. "Line up on both sides of the path, for God's sake, and fix your ties, if you have some, and check your flies, above all. Let's run a nice show for Kilgotten, and here he comes!" And here, indeed, came Lord Kilgotten, in a box carried on the planks of
was hiding out. I did not for a moment believe she or the child was sick. Our collision in front of the hotel, the baby's eyes and mine striking flint, had startled her like a fox and shunted her off God-knows-where, to some other alley, some other road, some other town. I smelled her evasion. She was a vixen, yes, but I felt myself, day by day, a better hound. I took to walking earlier, later, in the strangest locales. I would leap off buses in Ballsbridge and prowl the fog, or taxi halfway
Ballad of Reading Gaol'?" guessed Finn. "You have rammed the target and sunk the ship," Nolan grouched, maddened that the point had been plucked from him. "How did we know these imps out of bottles are not selling real-estate tracts in a place called Fire Island? Have you heard of it, Father?" "The American gazettes come often to my table, man." "Well, do you remember the great hurricane of nineteen-and-forty-six, when the waves washed over Fire Island there in New York? An uncle of mine, God
said the strange woman again. I recovered and said, "Who are you?" "A former friend of the director's and the former wife of one of his screenwriters. I know them both. God, I wish I didn't. They're both monsters, but your director's the worst. He'll eat you and spit out your bones. So—" She stared at me. "—whatever you do, don't go." Ricki's eyes were shut, but tears were leaking out of the lashes and running down to the tip of her nose where they fell, one by one, onto her plate. My God,