Much of Ray Bradbury’s latest novel, “Farewell Summer,” was written nearly half a century ago, while he was finishing “Dandelion Wine,” his beautiful paean to growing up in the Midwest. In fact the new novel, a sequel to that 1957 classic, was originally the other half of the book.
Publishers wanted something more manageable, though, so Bradbury split the narrative in two and set the second half aside for many years, only recently completing it. The result is like something out of one of the science fiction and fantasy master’s story collections: a collaboration between the younger Ray Bradbury and his older self. It’s a serendipitous happenstance, since “Farewell Summer” is, in large part, about the ultimate civil war: Our desire to stay forever young versus our desire to gain experience and wisdom.
After Doug Spaulding has a dream of death, the young boy causes the death of an older resident of Green Town, Ill. The old man has a heart attack after Doug pretends to shoot him with a toy gun. That event sets Doug and Calvin C. Quartermain, one of the old man’s friends, to wondering whether it was just a heart attack or some strange, boyish black magic.
In the end, it doesn’t matter; the war is on. The boy believes the old men are out to get him and his buddies. The old men believe the young boys are trying to do them in. Doug rallies an army of his brother Tom and all of their friends. Simultaneously, Quartermain gathers his forces, his “gray” army of aging men.
Like most Bradbury novels, “Farewell Summer” is made up of short chapters, many of which are vig nettes that wouldn’t stand well on their own. But the sum is greater than the individual parts, and as early as page 36, the author is tossing off phrases for which many writers would give an eye-tooth, such as “The graveyard was cool with old deaths …”
Bradbury can take something as simple as a litany of candies and turn it into a poetic treat: “… caramels to glue the teeth, licorice to blacken the heart …” But between the beautiful words and nostalgic remembrances lie thoughts of more recent battles, as Quartermain refers to the rowdy young boys as “infidels.” Later, one of his friends observes, “All we can do is wait until some of these sadists hit 19, then truck them off to war.”
Bradbury’s clever conceit finds the author referencing America’s Civil War as he addresses the emotional, intellectual and phantasmagoric battle between boys and old men. In the end, his warriors – and perhaps his two selves – find a happy truce between war and peace, love and hate, life and death.
If Bradbury were intentionally trying to cobble up a fitting grace note to his career, he couldn’t do any better. But as this former Midwesterner and lifetime practitioner of the art of fiction ages, he shows no signs of slowing down.
“Farewell Summer” is ample evidence that Bradbury still retains his ability to dazzle.
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Farewell Summer
By Ray Bradbury
Morrow, 214 pages, $24.95
