[EDITOR'S NOTE: This review was actually written maybe a couple of weeks ago. This morning, when I tried to post this and Blogger fucked me over by not working, I went to Twitter to bitch and moan like I usually do. Guess what was the number one story? Yeah. Bradbury is no longer among the two living writers in volume one of THE CENTURY'S BEST HORROR FICTION. Richard Matheson is now the only one who has that distinction. I toyed with the idea of rewriting this review, or at least the intro, but fuck that. It shall stand as is. Here's to one of the finest writers to ever set foot on this planet. RIP to a master.]
Here we have another horror powerhouse (the second biggest, only after Lovecraft), but Bradbury is distinguished from the others thus far that we’ve discussed, in that he’s the first author we’ve encountered in this anthology that is still alive. Nowadays, he’s revered as one of the greatest living writers we have (not just in horror or SF, but of all genres), and he certainly deserves the attention. Even back in 1944, he was kicking ass and taking names. This story is a good example of his work at the time.
Charlie is kind of a loser. The townsfolk think he’s a joke, and even his wife doesn’t respect him. But one night, while visiting a carnival sideshow, he discovers . . . something. He doesn’t quite know what it is, just that it looks weird, and it floats in an alcohol-filled jar. He also knows that he must own this thing. He feels very strongly that this will earn him the attention he craves from those around him. After haggling with the carny, he takes it home and entices his neighbors to come visit him. Drawn in by the thing in the jar, folks start coming to Charlie’s on a regular basis, just to hang out at his place and ponder what the jar contains.
Everyone sees something different. Charlie’s wife sees Charlie in there. Another character sees a kitten he drowned when he was a kid. Still another . . . well, you get the idea. The truly masterful thing Bradbury does is NOT explain why. The reasons are all clear for all to find between the lines, in all the things that are left unsaid.
Not that Bradbury doesn’t say a lot of things. Already, the style that he’d be known for is on display. Even the most skilled writers when it comes to description (like Blackwood and Machen, for example) pale in comparison to Bradbury. He is more like a painter, painting the finest imagery a writer can, but with words. He doesn’t just throw a bunch of florid words together, he actually makes the reader feel sensate, like the reader is actually one of those people hanging out in Charlie’s living room, staring at the thing in the jar.
At one point, one of his neighbors tells him that they’re never going to find out what it is. If they ever did, the mystery would be ruined. No one would bother to come by and wonder. SPOILER ALERT: Of course, someone has to find out. Charlie’s wife, who can’t stand to see Charlie get any respect, goes out to the carny and finds out that it’s all a gag. He made it from a bunch of household items. She goes back and lets Charlie in on the joke, and he loses it. The next thing you know, she “goes to her parents for a visit.” And the jar continues to attract attention to Charlie . . . . END OF SPOILERS.
Magic doesn’t exist, but Bradbury is the closest we can get to that. Reading this story is like watching an illusionist pull off a beautiful and wondrous trick. Except with Bradbury, there is no trick; there’s only what’s in our own hearts. That’s what he pulls out of his hat. Don’t miss this story.
[This story first appeared in WEIRD TALES and sadly cannot be read online at this time.]
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