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A review by quoththegirl
Let's All Kill Constance by Ray Bradbury
2.0
I was reading Let’s Kill Constance in the AAA office, which sparked a conversation with another poor car-less soul. He hadn’t heard of this one, and I only recently did myself. It’s the third in a loose detective story trilogy even more loosely based on Bradbury’s experiences working as a writer at a film story. Even bad Bradbury is usually pretty good, but this trilogy drives me a little nuts. Behold, to illustrate, here is an excerpt of an old man talking about the title character:
“Here are six different address in twelve different summers. Maybe she drowned in deep grass. Years are a great hiding place. God hides you. Duck! What’s my name?!”
He did a flip-flop cartwheel across the room. I heard his old bones scream.
“Ta-ta!” He grinned in pain.
“Mr. Metaphor!”
“You got it!” He dropped cold.
I leaned over him, terrified. He popped one eye wide.
“That was a close one. Prop me up.”
It does not make any more sense in context, I assure you. Did he have a heart attack? Is he just a crazy old man? Who knows! There are the usual excellent Bradburian turns of phrase and the occasional flash of insight, but the rest is just complete pandemonium. I have vague ideas about what happened, but I still don’t know how much of it was real. It wouldn’t greatly surprise me to hear that Bradbury wrote this trilogy while under the influence of something or other, possibly drunk on his own creativity.
“Here are six different address in twelve different summers. Maybe she drowned in deep grass. Years are a great hiding place. God hides you. Duck! What’s my name?!”
He did a flip-flop cartwheel across the room. I heard his old bones scream.
“Ta-ta!” He grinned in pain.
“Mr. Metaphor!”
“You got it!” He dropped cold.
I leaned over him, terrified. He popped one eye wide.
“That was a close one. Prop me up.”
It does not make any more sense in context, I assure you. Did he have a heart attack? Is he just a crazy old man? Who knows! There are the usual excellent Bradburian turns of phrase and the occasional flash of insight, but the rest is just complete pandemonium. I have vague ideas about what happened, but I still don’t know how much of it was real. It wouldn’t greatly surprise me to hear that Bradbury wrote this trilogy while under the influence of something or other, possibly drunk on his own creativity.