he wonders of Mars are so numerous that someone could pile them high and toboggan down them hard. But they're mostly lost on humans, who, like ill-bred houseguests, first come to visit, then begin to colonize. Mars counterattacks in its own, sometimes seemingly-unconcerned manner, but finally yields to the relentless pressures of the Earthlings' mega-weapons -- imported suburbia and myriads of the most common sort of folk.
But while Earthlings can escape Earth, they cannot escape themselves. They erect the new Mars orthodoxy, but build it with the same stale ideas and staff it with the same petty bureaucrats that have led the home world near to nuclear destruction. Both do-gooders and ne'er-do-wells do well enough on the Martian frontier, but ultimately all ripening ambitions are left rotting under the sun. With the news that Earth has finally unleashed its missiles, the Martian colony exports itself en masse back home. Maybe two people miss the exodus, three tops, and all is silent on the dusty Martian horizon, except perhaps for the possible tinkle of Martian laughter, or the breeze of Martian sighs.
The surreal becomes ethereal
The Martian Chronicles is confidently surreal, its aesthetic somehow akin to finding Aunt Tillie's teeth in a glass by the sink in the bathroom in the middle of the night. It's weird, yet fascinating, funny, a little repulsive, and kind of sad. It's nowhere near a straight narrative, it's not quite even a story. Its focus tacks blithely back and forth among a variety of vignettes, like a sailboat turned by easy, changing winds.
There's a lot of atmosphere here that has the potential to date the book, to lame and maim it. There's a clear, post-war sensibility in the simplicity of the prose, and all sorts of references to period doodads -- hot dog stands, Main Streets, beauty parlors and bon-bons. Wildly, it doesn't date. In fact, it's as fresh as a newly mown lawn and is comprised of that peculiar kind of retro-futuristic alloy that is so in vogue among certain SF contingents today.
If a reader wanted to throw a crabapple or two at its weak spots, well, it really doesn't have anything like a soft underbelly. There's definitely room for a brief dialogue on second-tier female characters, and room to cite one vignette for its marginally unkind, fat-lady humor, but The Martian Chronicles is pretty solid throughout, despite its ethereal style. After 50 years, The Martian Chronicles is worth the nostalgic re-read for Bradbury veterans, and definitely worth the investment for those who have yet to read this masterpiece.
