The Cat's Pajamas, Ray Bradbury
Ray Bradbury

The Cat's Pajamas

178 printed pages
Ray Bradbury is, indisputably, one of America's greatest storytellers. The recipient of the 2000 National Book Foundation Medal for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters, he ranks among the most beloved — and widely read — of American authors. In The Cat's Pajamas, this “latter-day O. Henry” (Booklist) takes us on an amazing walk through his six-decade career, presenting twenty-two tales — some old, some new, all but two never before published.
Here you will find stories strange and scary, nostalgic and bittersweet, humorous and heart-touching, ranging from the not-so-long-gone past to an unknowable future: a group of senators drinks a bit too much — and gambles away the United States; a newlywed couple buys an old house and finds their fledgling relationship tested; two mysterious strangers arrive at a rooming house and baffle their fellow occupants with strange crying in the night; a lonely woman takes a last chance on love. The final piece in the collection is a story-poem, a fond salute from Bradbury to his literary heroes Shaw, Chesterton, Dickens, Twain, Poe, Wilde, Melville, and Kipling.
The Cat's Pajamas is just that — the bee's knees — a touching, timeless, and tender collection from the incomparable Ray Bradbury, and a anoramic view of an amazingly long, rich, and fertile creative career.
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IT IS NOT EVERY NIGHT driving along Millpass, California’s Route 9, that one expects to spy a cat in the middle lane.
For that matter, it is not every evening that such a cat could be found on any untrafficked road, the cat being, more or less, an abandoned kitten.
Nevertheless, the small creature was there, busily cleaning itself, when two things happened:
A car traveling east at a rapid rate suddenly braked to a halt.
Simultaneously, a much more rapid convertible, traveling west, almost ruptured its tires to a dead standstill.
The doors of both cars banged wide in unison.
The small beast remained calm as high heels clattered one way and golfing brogans banged the other.
Almost colliding over the self-groo
It’s your Oedipus complex, Jerry. Women never seem like females to you. They seem like bathed, flowered, sexless ivory carvings on rococo pedestals. You loved your mother too completely.
Ray Bradbury, Galina Mikhaylovskaya
Galina Mikhaylovskaya
Ray Bradbury
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