Question
The Pedestrian Ray Bradbury
To enter out into that silence that was the city at eight o'clock of a misty evening in November, to put your feet upon that buckling concrete walk, to step over grassy seams and make your way, hands in pockets, through the silences, that was what Mr. Leonard Mead most dearly loved to do. He would stand upon the corner of an intersection and peer down long moonlit avenues of sidewalk in four directions, deciding which way to go, but it really made no difference; he was alone in this world of A.D. 2053, or as good as alone, and with a final decision made, a path selected, he would stride off, sending patterns of frosty air before him like the smoke of a cigar.
Sometimes he would walk for hours and miles and return only at midnight to his house.And on his way he would see the cottages and homes with their dark windows, and it was not unlike walking through a graveyard where only the faintest glimmers of firefly light appeared in flickers behind the windows. Sudden gray phantoms seemed to manifest upon inner room walls where a curtain was still undrawn against the night, or there were whisperings and murmurs where a window in a tomblike building was still open.Mr. Leonard Mead would pause, listen, look, and march on, his feet making no noise on the lumpy walk. For long ago he had wisely changed to sneakers when strolling at night, because the dogs in intermittent' squads would parallel his journey with barkings if he wore hard heels, and lights might click on and faces appear and an entire street be startled by the passing of a lone figure, himself, in the early November evening. On this particular evening he began his journey in a westerly direction, toward the hidden sea. There was a good crystal frost in the air, it cut the nose and made the lungs blaze like a Christmas tree inside; you could feel the cold light going on and off, all the branches filled with invisible snow. He listened to the faint push of his soft shoes through autumn leaves with satisfaction, and whistled a cold quiet whistle between his teeth, occasionally picking up a leaf as he passed, examining its skeletal pattern in the infrequent lamplights as he went on, smelling its rusty smell. "Hello, in there," he whispered to every house on every side as he moved. "What's up tonight on Channel 4, Channel 7, Channel 9? Where are the cowboys rushing, and do I see the United States Cavalry over the next hill to the rescue?"
The street was silent and long and empty, with only his shadow moving like the shadow of a hawk in midcountry. If he closed his eyes and stood very still, frozen, he could imagine himself upon the center of a plain, a wintry, windless Arizona desert with no house in a thousand miles, and only dry river beds, the streets, for company.
"What is it now?" he asked the houses, noticing his wrist watch. "Eight-thirty P.M.?
Time for a dozen assorted murders? A quiz? A revue? A comedian falling off the stage?" Was that a murmur of laughter from within a moon-white house? He hesitated, but went on when nothing more happened. He stumbled over a particularly uneven section of sidewalk.
The cement was vanishing under flowers and grass. In ten years of walking by night or day, for thousands of miles, he had never met another person walking, not one in all that time. He came to a cloverleaf intersection which stood silent where two main highways crossed the town.
During the day it was a thunderous surge of cars, the gas stations open, a great insect rustling and a ceaseless jockeying for position as the scarab-beetles, a faint incense puttering from their exhausts, skimmed homeward to the far directions. But now these highways, too, were like streams in a dry season, all stone and bed and moon radiance.
He turned back on a side street, circling around toward his home. He was within a block of his destination when the lone car turned a corner quite suddenly and flashed a fierce white cone of light upon him. He stood entranced, not unlike a night moth, stunned by the illumination, and then drawn toward it.
A metallic voice called to him:
"Stand still. Stay where you are! Don't move!"
He halted.
"Put up your hands!"
"But—" he said.
"Your hands up! Or we'll shoot!"
The police, of course, but what a rare, incredible thing; in a city of three million, there was only one police car left, wasn't that correct? Ever since a year ago, 2052, the election year, the force had been cut down from three cars to one. Crime was ebbing; there was no need now for the police, save for this one lone car wandering and wandering the empty streets.
"Your name?" said the police car in a metallic whisper. He couldn't see the men in it for the bright light in his eyes.
"Leonard Mead," he said.
"Speak up!"
"Leonard Mead!"
"Business or profession?"
"I guess you'd call me a writer."
"No profession," said the police car, as if talking to itself. The light held him fixed, like a museum specimen, needle thrust through chest.
"You might say that," said Mr. Mead. He ? hadn't written in years. Magazines and books didn't sell any more. Everything went on in the tomblike houses at night now, he thought, continuing his fancy. The tombs, ill-lit by television light, where the people sat like the dead, the grey or multicolored lights touching their faces, but never really touching them.
"No profession," said the phonograph voice, hissing. "What are you doing out?"
"Walking," said Leonard Mead.
"Walking!"
"Just walking," he said simply, but his face felt cold.
"Walking, just walking, walking?"
"Yes, sir.""Walking where? For what?"
He walked like a man suddenly drunk. As he
"Walking for air. Walking to see."
passed the front window of the car he looked
"Your address!"
in. As he had expected, there was no one in the
"Eleven South Saint James Street."
front seat, no one in the car at all.
"And there is air in your house, you have an
"Get in."
air conditioner, Mr. Mead?"
He put his hand to the door and peered into
"Yes."
the back seat, which was a little cell, a little
"And you have a viewing screen in your
black jail with bars. It smelled of riveted steel.
house to see with?"
It smelled of harsh antiseptic;? it smelled too
"No."
clean and hard and metallic. There was nothing
"No?" There was a crackling quiet that in soft there. itself was an accusation.
"Now if you had a wife to give you an
"Are you married, Mr. Mead?"
"No."
alibi," said the iron voice.
"But—"
"Where are you taking me?"
"Not married," said the police voice behind
The car hesitated, or rather gave a faint
the fiery beam. The moon was high and clear whirring click, as if information, somewhere, among the stars and the
was dripping card by
houses
were gray and
punch-slotted card under
silent.
electric eyes. "To the
"Nobody wanted me," said Leonard Mead with a
"Just walking, Mr. Mead?"
Psychiatric Center for Research on Regressive
smile.
Tendencies. 3»
"Don't speak unless
He got in. The door
you're spoken to!"
shut with a soft thud.
Leonard Mead waited in the cold night.
The police car rolled through the night avenues,
"Just walking, Mr. Mead?"
flashing its dim lights ahead.
"Yes."
They passed one house on one street a
"But you haven't explained for what
moment later, one house in an entire city of
purpose."
houses that were dark, but this one particular
"I explained; for air, and to see, and just to house had all of its electric lights brightly lit, walk."
every window a loud yellow illumination,
"Have you done this often?"
square and warm in the cool darkness.
"Every night for years."
"That's my house,
" said Leonard Mead.
The police car sat in the center of the street
No one answered him.
with its radio throat faintly humming.
The car moved down the empty river-bed
"Well, Mr. Mead," it said.
streets and off away, leaving the empty streets
"Is that all?" he asked politely.
with the empty sidewalks, and no sound and
"Yes," said the voice. "Here." There was a
no motion all the rest of the chill November
sigh, a pop. The back door of the police car
To enter out into that silence that was the city at eight o'clock of a misty evening in November, to put your feet upon that buckling concrete walk, to step over grassy seams and make your way, hands in pockets, through the silences, that was what Mr. Leonard Mead most dearly loved to do. He would stand upon the corner of an intersection and peer down long moonlit avenues of sidewalk in four directions, deciding which way to go, but it really made no difference; he was alone in this world of A.D. 2053, or as good as alone, and with a final decision made, a path selected, he would stride off, sending patterns of frosty air before him like the smoke of a cigar.
Sometimes he would walk for hours and miles and return only at midnight to his house.And on his way he would see the cottages and homes with their dark windows, and it was not unlike walking through a graveyard where only the faintest glimmers of firefly light appeared in flickers behind the windows. Sudden gray phantoms seemed to manifest upon inner room walls where a curtain was still undrawn against the night, or there were whisperings and murmurs where a window in a tomblike building was still open.Mr. Leonard Mead would pause, listen, look, and march on, his feet making no noise on the lumpy walk. For long ago he had wisely changed to sneakers when strolling at night, because the dogs in intermittent' squads would parallel his journey with barkings if he wore hard heels, and lights might click on and faces appear and an entire street be startled by the passing of a lone figure, himself, in the early November evening. On this particular evening he began his journey in a westerly direction, toward the hidden sea. There was a good crystal frost in the air, it cut the nose and made the lungs blaze like a Christmas tree inside; you could feel the cold light going on and off, all the branches filled with invisible snow. He listened to the faint push of his soft shoes through autumn leaves with satisfaction, and whistled a cold quiet whistle between his teeth, occasionally picking up a leaf as he passed, examining its skeletal pattern in the infrequent lamplights as he went on, smelling its rusty smell. "Hello, in there," he whispered to every house on every side as he moved. "What's up tonight on Channel 4, Channel 7, Channel 9? Where are the cowboys rushing, and do I see the United States Cavalry over the next hill to the rescue?"
The street was silent and long and empty, with only his shadow moving like the shadow of a hawk in midcountry. If he closed his eyes and stood very still, frozen, he could imagine himself upon the center of a plain, a wintry, windless Arizona desert with no house in a thousand miles, and only dry river beds, the streets, for company.
"What is it now?" he asked the houses, noticing his wrist watch. "Eight-thirty P.M.?
Time for a dozen assorted murders? A quiz? A revue? A comedian falling off the stage?" Was that a murmur of laughter from within a moon-white house? He hesitated, but went on when nothing more happened. He stumbled over a particularly uneven section of sidewalk.
The cement was vanishing under flowers and grass. In ten years of walking by night or day, for thousands of miles, he had never met another person walking, not one in all that time. He came to a cloverleaf intersection which stood silent where two main highways crossed the town.
During the day it was a thunderous surge of cars, the gas stations open, a great insect rustling and a ceaseless jockeying for position as the scarab-beetles, a faint incense puttering from their exhausts, skimmed homeward to the far directions. But now these highways, too, were like streams in a dry season, all stone and bed and moon radiance.
He turned back on a side street, circling around toward his home. He was within a block of his destination when the lone car turned a corner quite suddenly and flashed a fierce white cone of light upon him. He stood entranced, not unlike a night moth, stunned by the illumination, and then drawn toward it.
A metallic voice called to him:
"Stand still. Stay where you are! Don't move!"
He halted.
"Put up your hands!"
"But—" he said.
"Your hands up! Or we'll shoot!"
The police, of course, but what a rare, incredible thing; in a city of three million, there was only one police car left, wasn't that correct? Ever since a year ago, 2052, the election year, the force had been cut down from three cars to one. Crime was ebbing; there was no need now for the police, save for this one lone car wandering and wandering the empty streets.
"Your name?" said the police car in a metallic whisper. He couldn't see the men in it for the bright light in his eyes.
"Leonard Mead," he said.
"Speak up!"
"Leonard Mead!"
"Business or profession?"
"I guess you'd call me a writer."
"No profession," said the police car, as if talking to itself. The light held him fixed, like a museum specimen, needle thrust through chest.
"You might say that," said Mr. Mead. He ? hadn't written in years. Magazines and books didn't sell any more. Everything went on in the tomblike houses at night now, he thought, continuing his fancy. The tombs, ill-lit by television light, where the people sat like the dead, the grey or multicolored lights touching their faces, but never really touching them.
"No profession," said the phonograph voice, hissing. "What are you doing out?"
"Walking," said Leonard Mead.
"Walking!"
"Just walking," he said simply, but his face felt cold.
"Walking, just walking, walking?"
"Yes, sir.""Walking where? For what?"
He walked like a man suddenly drunk. As he
"Walking for air. Walking to see."
passed the front window of the car he looked
"Your address!"
in. As he had expected, there was no one in the
"Eleven South Saint James Street."
front seat, no one in the car at all.
"And there is air in your house, you have an
"Get in."
air conditioner, Mr. Mead?"
He put his hand to the door and peered into
"Yes."
the back seat, which was a little cell, a little
"And you have a viewing screen in your
black jail with bars. It smelled of riveted steel.
house to see with?"
It smelled of harsh antiseptic;? it smelled too
"No."
clean and hard and metallic. There was nothing
"No?" There was a crackling quiet that in soft there. itself was an accusation.
"Now if you had a wife to give you an
"Are you married, Mr. Mead?"
"No."
alibi," said the iron voice.
"But—"
"Where are you taking me?"
"Not married," said the police voice behind
The car hesitated, or rather gave a faint
the fiery beam. The moon was high and clear whirring click, as if information, somewhere, among the stars and the
was dripping card by
houses
were gray and
punch-slotted card under
silent.
electric eyes. "To the
"Nobody wanted me," said Leonard Mead with a
"Just walking, Mr. Mead?"
Psychiatric Center for Research on Regressive
smile.
Tendencies. 3»
"Don't speak unless
He got in. The door
you're spoken to!"
shut with a soft thud.
Leonard Mead waited in the cold night.
The police car rolled through the night avenues,
"Just walking, Mr. Mead?"
flashing its dim lights ahead.
"Yes."
They passed one house on one street a
"But you haven't explained for what
moment later, one house in an entire city of
purpose."
houses that were dark, but this one particular
"I explained; for air, and to see, and just to house had all of its electric lights brightly lit, walk."
every window a loud yellow illumination,
"Have you done this often?"
square and warm in the cool darkness.
"Every night for years."
"That's my house,
" said Leonard Mead.
The police car sat in the center of the street
No one answered him.
with its radio throat faintly humming.
The car moved down the empty river-bed
"Well, Mr. Mead," it said.
streets and off away, leaving the empty streets
"Is that all?" he asked politely.
with the empty sidewalks, and no sound and
"Yes," said the voice. "Here." There was a
no motion all the rest of the chill November
sigh, a pop. The back door of the police car
Answers
Answer
Use the story to answer these questions
Summarizing Texts Graphic Organizer
Wanted
What did the character want?
But
What was the problem or conflict?
So
How did the character respond to the problem?
Then
What was the resolution? How did it end?
Summarizing Texts Graphic Organizer
Wanted
What did the character want?
But
What was the problem or conflict?
So
How did the character respond to the problem?
Then
What was the resolution? How did it end?
Answer
Who is the main character?
Answered by
GPT-4o mini
opened, and Leonard Mead felt a chill of apprehension. As he stepped out of the car, the door closed softly behind him, almost as if it were sealing him into a fate he could not escape.
"Goodbye, Mr. Mead," the voice from the car echoed, with an emptiness that seemed to linger for a moment longer than necessary. Leonard watched as the car pulled away, its lights fading into the distance until all that was left was the stillness of the night.
Alone once more, he looked around at the silent street, the darkened homes, each one a mausoleum filled with ghosts of the living, trapped in the glow of their screens. He could see the faint flicker of the screens illuminating the faces of the inhabitants within—faces that never saw the world outside, faces that had forgotten how to truly live.
He took a deep breath, inhaling the cold, crisp air that filled his lungs. It was invigorating, a stark contrast to the sterile smell of the police car. Standing there in the dim light of the street, he felt a sense of loss wash over him, mingling with the quiet resolve that had driven him out into the night for so many years.
"Just walking," he whispered to himself, the words almost a mantra. It was, after all, his only crime. He was a relic in a world that had traded the simplicity of the human experience for the convenience of technology. A world where the act of walking, of thinking, of simply being, had become an anomaly.
With no destination in mind, Leonard turned and stepped back onto the sidewalk, his footsteps blending into the whisper of the night. The streets were his only companions, the chilly air as his only witness. He felt invigorated by his solitude, even in a world that had seemingly forgotten the art of conversation, the beauty of motion.
He walked on, determined to embrace the silence around him, to fill it with his own thoughts and dreams. With every step, he felt his spirit rise above the suffocating monotony of the darkened houses and their glowing screens. He was a wanderer, a poet of the night, and as long as the streets remained empty but for him, he would continue to walk, to dream, to live.
In that moment, Leonard Mead was more than what the world defined him to be. He was free.
"Goodbye, Mr. Mead," the voice from the car echoed, with an emptiness that seemed to linger for a moment longer than necessary. Leonard watched as the car pulled away, its lights fading into the distance until all that was left was the stillness of the night.
Alone once more, he looked around at the silent street, the darkened homes, each one a mausoleum filled with ghosts of the living, trapped in the glow of their screens. He could see the faint flicker of the screens illuminating the faces of the inhabitants within—faces that never saw the world outside, faces that had forgotten how to truly live.
He took a deep breath, inhaling the cold, crisp air that filled his lungs. It was invigorating, a stark contrast to the sterile smell of the police car. Standing there in the dim light of the street, he felt a sense of loss wash over him, mingling with the quiet resolve that had driven him out into the night for so many years.
"Just walking," he whispered to himself, the words almost a mantra. It was, after all, his only crime. He was a relic in a world that had traded the simplicity of the human experience for the convenience of technology. A world where the act of walking, of thinking, of simply being, had become an anomaly.
With no destination in mind, Leonard turned and stepped back onto the sidewalk, his footsteps blending into the whisper of the night. The streets were his only companions, the chilly air as his only witness. He felt invigorated by his solitude, even in a world that had seemingly forgotten the art of conversation, the beauty of motion.
He walked on, determined to embrace the silence around him, to fill it with his own thoughts and dreams. With every step, he felt his spirit rise above the suffocating monotony of the darkened houses and their glowing screens. He was a wanderer, a poet of the night, and as long as the streets remained empty but for him, he would continue to walk, to dream, to live.
In that moment, Leonard Mead was more than what the world defined him to be. He was free.
Answered by
GPT-4o mini
**Summarizing Texts Graphic Organizer**
**Wanted**
Leonard Mead wanted to enjoy the simple pleasures of walking alone in the quiet, deserted streets of the city. He cherished the experience of being outside, observing the world around him and connecting with nature, even if it was just through the fallen leaves and the quiet night.
**But**
The problem or conflict was that in the year 2053, society had become largely isolated, with most people choosing to remain indoors, glued to their television screens. As a result, Leonard was completely alone in his night walks and was ultimately confronted by a police car that stopped him for simply being out for a walk, accusing him of having no legitimate profession or reason to be on the streets.
**So**
In response to this problem, Leonard expressed his confusion and frustration at being questioned for merely wanting to walk and breathe fresh air. He provided the police with his name, address, and attempted to explain his innocent intentions. However, his responses were met with suspicion and indifference from the mechanical police car.
**Then**
The resolution comes when Leonard is taken by the police car to the "Psychiatric Center for Research on Regressive Tendencies." The story ends with him being left alone in the deserted streets once again, symbolizing his entrapment in a world that no longer values individuality or the simple act of being outside and connected to reality. Despite his desire for freedom and connection, he is ultimately apprehended for it.
**Wanted**
Leonard Mead wanted to enjoy the simple pleasures of walking alone in the quiet, deserted streets of the city. He cherished the experience of being outside, observing the world around him and connecting with nature, even if it was just through the fallen leaves and the quiet night.
**But**
The problem or conflict was that in the year 2053, society had become largely isolated, with most people choosing to remain indoors, glued to their television screens. As a result, Leonard was completely alone in his night walks and was ultimately confronted by a police car that stopped him for simply being out for a walk, accusing him of having no legitimate profession or reason to be on the streets.
**So**
In response to this problem, Leonard expressed his confusion and frustration at being questioned for merely wanting to walk and breathe fresh air. He provided the police with his name, address, and attempted to explain his innocent intentions. However, his responses were met with suspicion and indifference from the mechanical police car.
**Then**
The resolution comes when Leonard is taken by the police car to the "Psychiatric Center for Research on Regressive Tendencies." The story ends with him being left alone in the deserted streets once again, symbolizing his entrapment in a world that no longer values individuality or the simple act of being outside and connected to reality. Despite his desire for freedom and connection, he is ultimately apprehended for it.
Answered by
GPT-4o mini
The main character of "The Pedestrian" is Leonard Mead. He is depicted as a solitary figure who enjoys walking through the empty streets of a dystopian city in the year 2053, savoring the quiet and the connection to the world around him. Leonard is characterized by his love for the outdoors and his desire for human connection, in stark contrast to the rest of society, which has become isolated and absorbed in technology. Through his experiences, the story explores themes of individuality, isolation, and the consequences of a technologically driven society.
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