The Pedestrian by Ray Bradbury Essay

At 1:30 in the morning on 30 March I was awakened by sharp, unfriendly knocks at my door, the unmistakable signature of the police. ‘The time has come,’ I said to myself as I opened the door to find half-a-dozen armed security policemen. They turned the house upside down, taking virtually every piece of paper they could find. I was then arrested without a warrant, and given no opportunity to call my lawyer. They refused to inform my wife as to where I was being taken. I simply nodded at Winnie; it was no time for words of comfort.(pg.239)

Ray Bradbury’s short story “The Pedestrian” is a dramatic illustration of the dangers of living in a world where contact with nature is deemed so abnormal that even walking alone at night is a crime. The dystopian story revolves around the tale of a man named Leonard Mead, living during a time period not so far away from our own, in 2053 CE. In the story, a robotic police car is so suspicious of Mead’s walking behavior during one pleasant night that he is taken away to a psychiatric hospital.

Mead is walking down the street around midnight like he does every night but this night something weird happened to Mr. Mead a police car stops him and orders him to put his hands up. He answers a series of questions about his life. This car is the only remaining police car in the area. The car tells him that he is being taken to a psychiatric center because of his regressive tendencies. His behavior is not acceptable in the society no one walks anymore. Because he was just taking a walk at night he was detained and taken to a psychiatric center because it was odd to take walks in the time period. He conforming to society and because of this he is being punished and thought to be a psycho because he's just walking. This relates to The Anthem because of the conforming Idea its a society where everyone is conforming and there one person that is different and punished because of

“Another day, another mystery,” announced the policeman. He threw the paper in his hand at me, as if it were a frisbee. The ink on the wrinkled paper gave all the needed information. “Scene of Crime: The Frederick Mansion, VICTIM: Jack Frederick, SUSPECTS: Commander Patrisce, Robert Young, and David Ray, CASE: Murder.” Instantly, I spat out my Earl-Grey Tea in bewilderment. Jack Frederick, the billionaire and entrepreneur, dead? In a flash, I went to my car and rushed to the scene.

The imaginative story “The Pedestrian” written by Ray Bradbury, which is takes place in a downhearted future in the year 2053. The main character of this story is Leonard Mead, who loves to walks on the street at the time of evening. He is the only pedestrian near his locality. No other people wants to like him because people have addiction on television, they are busy to watch their favorite show on television. I has been ten years, every evening he goes for the long walk, but he has never seen another person who walks like him. The main argument of the story is that, does our society going on right direction

The night air is warm in Maycomb, perhaps even welcoming one on a nightly stroll. Perhaps on any other day, I’d relish the air and the newspaper in my hands. Not tonight. Tonight, the humid and warm atmosphere tortures me; it drives me crazy. It adds to the already strenuous mood. Desperate for a distraction from the waiting, I focus my attention to the newspaper in my hands. Scanning for any interesting stories, I flip through the newspaper. Insults hurled toward me, words of anger tossed at Tom Robinson. Despite the foul things that were written, I could not find a place in my heart to hate these people. Each and everyone was a person I had known since my childhood, each knew me, yet they let their good judgement be blinded. I look back at the jailhouse, curious if the

Gray, nimbostratus clouds blanketed the L.A. skyline, the promise of rain becoming more of a threat with each passing hour. However, the bleak, November day suited Tom’s pensive mood, the impending storm mirroring the tumultuous thoughts brewing within his mind. After countless cups of coffee and only three hours’ sleep, he was on edge, caught in a web of his own making. He wandered in aimless circles around the living room floor, his pinched face showing clear signs of agitation, his heart thumping rapidly in his chest. For the tenth time in less than five minutes, he glanced at the clock, unsure if he wanted his visitor to arrive or not. But despite his apprehension, he knew he needed to face his demons, and a gloomy

We whizzed through the exit from the Meridian highway into the town with our four dusty cars all sneaking through the night. We drove into the square where the dirtiest building in town laid. Tonight there was extension cord hanging over the entrance with a man underneath reading a newspaper. Behind him a negro man sleeping in a cell. I looked to my right at the passenger giving him a questioning look. He cocked his gun and put the Tau Pistol into his hidden holster behind his back. We got out in pairs and walked over to where the man sat.

During his walk, something starts nagging at him. His heart starts behaving irregularly and a sense of excitement takes over him. At the bed of the road, he encounters an astonishing sight. The house looks poorly painted and fake and unconvincing. However, the narrator knows that that is the house he is looking for. As he walks to the house he sees a man behind a little counter. He assumes he

Bellowing out the oversized rough looking man showed his gun at Abram, ‘Get the hell out of my sight you piece of shit!’ Stepping backward Abram nodded, although overwhelmed silently pledging a new chapter in life, and began the journey home. Flowing gust of wind blew endlessly, dressing the scene with dark moving clouds, within each ruffling leaf his heart sang. The idea of danger bypassed his soul entering into the darkest area, on the edge of the once crowed park. Previously empty streets are lined with vehicles of all sorts, tall aging street lambs offer no help, most are in need of repair while a few stay dimly illuminated. Reading the signs along the way, “No Parking” increasing his pace realizing this is not a good position to be in. There are no apartments close by, the park is too dark, he could not see anyone, or for that matter hear any noise whatsoever. Little did Abram know, there are people, many dangerous people watching his every step! Two middle aged men keep their stranger under observation from a building a distance away. Communicating to another set of men sitting in a van with tinted windows along the parkway. Passing a large truck Abram had no idea the graffiti truck held many more people with high

All morning the rain had fallen, a constant pounding on the streets just beyond the window through I which I watched the cars splashing the puddles while people huddled underneath umbrellas, trying desperately to make it to their destination without being drenched. Life was passing by within my view, but all I could bring myself to do was sit in my usual booth at the diner, not interested nor invested in the movements of daily life that surrounded me. Flipping through the newspaper laying on the table in front of me, I quickly pass over yet another article explaining the ongoing search for one missing Charlie Swan. Even though the police and reporters pointed the finger of blame on animal attacks, spiteful felons and rock slides, none of their lame story lines mattered for I knew the truth; my father, the Chief of Police, died at the hands of a certain red-haired vamp who had a vendetta against me.

It was a bright evening with the light shining through the window curtains casting a ray down upon Mr. Johnson’s crude and bitter face. He rose with a grunt, his rump pulling the sheets in a fashion only comparable to that of a maelstrom. As the cover of the bed was yanked towards the mighty roundness of Mr. Johnson’s figure, a large bottle fell to the floor with a slight ting in its landing. “A lousy day for the aftermath of drinking, wouldn’t you say, honey?” he bellowed downstairs. The plump man’s comical roll to his feet was that of an armadillo hiding in fear of predators. With vigor, he yanked his coat off of a nearby coat rack and bolted down the stairs, nearly falling, towards the fresh smell of a homemade meal prepared on the kitchen counter. “I don’t know what you you’re talking about, pal.” A crude voice muttered from behind the counter. It was at this point that Mr. Johnson realized, this house was not his own. In fact, it was not a home at all. A sudden flashback nearly knocked him off his feet. He, in that moment, remembered where he was. This was the hotel he stopped at on his drunken march home from town. “Oh dear, sorry for the confusion. I fear I may have made an improper judgement of the building I slept in last night.” He reached his hand in his pocket. “For your troubles?” He handed the man a small flask of what appeared to be a thick liquor. “Thank ya, kindly stranger, really takes the edge off of a stressful work day.” Said the man with a devilish smile on his face as he slid it in his pocket. “That it does.”, replied Mr. Johnson. “That it does.”

As a young, five year-old child, Jimmie was surrounded with an abusive family. His mother’s “operations on the urchin instantly increased in violence [until] at last she tossed him to a corner where he limply lay cursing and weeping.” And whenever his mother was not home, his father would abuse him. Eventually, violence became so innate that that Jimmie was able to assault Maggie and cause her to “burst into tears.” His violent inclinations escalated because as Jimmie grew up, he developed a length arrest record.

Lifting his hand, he rapped his knuckles on the door. There was no sound of life from within the apartment, even the television remained suspiciously silent. Surprise etched two deep lines between Booker’s brows. When he’d gone to the chapel in search of Tom, Judy had informed him he was still sick. With no option but to go to his friend’s home, Booker had taken the time to go home and shower before driving back across town. However, although Tom’s Mustang was parked outside the apartment building and a telltale strip of light shone from under the door, both indicating he was home, no one answered the door. Unsure whether to risk disturbing his sick friend, Booker pondered the benefit of knocking a second time. If he woke Tom up, the young officer would probably be in a bad mood, but if he turned around and went home, another twenty-four hours would pass before he could offer up an apology. Indecision deepened the dark-haired officer’s frown, his teeth worrying his lower lip as he mentally worked through the pros and cons. But it didn’t take long for him to make up his mind. He was a man of action, and now he was there, he was determined to follow

By denying his past, his family name & claim to property, he tries to assert his existential liberty. He wants to live in “shadow, silence and stillness.” (10). He works as an anonymous and shabby clerk in a newspaper. He thinks that “three drinks and a room - a