YOU DON'T HAVE TO BE SICK TO GET BETTER.
LET ME WALK YOU THROUGH THE PEDESTRAIN
In The Pedestrian Ray Bradbury theme is that in a future society everyone would be bewitched with technology. In his imagination technology had authority over humanity. Bradbury wrote The Pedestrian in 1951 as a result of letting his imagination go wild. In this short-story this guy goes for a walk and describes his surroundings. What drives the story is what is implied.
Ray Bradbury sat down and try to make sense from his experience and he wrote it into this story. His tone was lonely and sad.
The plot was a plot twist which consisted many irony moments. An example of situational irony in which the part where the police car comes by and it turns out to be a machine.
He was witty, and so he hassled.
dystopia
What drives the story is what is implied.
THEME
INTRO [ Bradbury's Experience & Feelings ]
- Humanity
- Technology
- Authority
1. PLOT
2. CHARACTER
4. CONCLUSION
Outdated- part in where they ask about profession: Writer - No profession
Ray Bradbury sat down and try to make sense from his experience and he wrote it into this story. His tone was lonely and sad.
The plot was a plot twist which consisted many irony moments. An example of situational irony in which the part where the police car comes by and it turns out to be a machine.
He was witty, and so he hassled.
dystopia
What drives the story is what is implied.
THEME
INTRO [ Bradbury's Experience & Feelings ]
- Humanity
- Technology
- Authority
1. PLOT
2. CHARACTER
4. CONCLUSION
Outdated- part in where they ask about profession: Writer - No profession
THE PEDESTRIAN
The Pedestrian
The Pedestrian
By Ray Bradbury
(copied with gratitude from http://englischlehrer.de/texts/pedestrian.php;
original source
The Golden Apples of the Sun by Ray Bradbury, Heinemann Educational Publishers; 1st New edition 1990)
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 2053 A.D., 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 unequal to 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 tomb-like building was still open.
Mr Leonard Mead would pause, cock his head, 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 mid-country. 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 street, 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 anymore. Everything went on in the tomb-like houses at night now, he thought, continuing his fancy. The tombs, ill-lit by television light, where the people sat like the dead, the gray or multi-colored 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?'
'Walking for air. Walking to see.'
'Your address!'
'Eleven South Saint James Street.'
'And there is air in your house, you have an air conditioner, Mr Mead?'
Yes.'
'And you have a viewing screen in your house to see with?'
'No.
'No?' There was a crackling quiet that in itself was an accusation.
'Are you married, Mr Mead?'
'No.'
'Not married,' said the police voice behind the fiery beam. The moon was high and dear among the stars and the houses were gray and silent.
'Nobody wanted me,' said Leonard Mead with a smile.
'Don't speak unless you're spoken to!'
Leonard Mead waited in the cold night.
'Just walking; Mr Mead?'
'Yes.'
But you haven't explained for what purpose.'
'I explained; for air, and to see, and just to walk.'
'Have you done this often?'
Every night for years.'
The police car sat in the center of the street with its radio throat faintly humming.
'Well, Mr Mead', it said.
''s that all?' he asked politely.
'Yes,' said the voice. 'Here.' There was a sigh, a pop. The back doot of the police car sprang wide. 'Get in.'
'Wait a minute, 1 haven't done anything!'
'Get in.'
'I protest!'
'Mr Mead.'
He walked like a man suddenly drunk. As he passed the front window of the car he looked in. As he had expected, there was no one in the front seat, no one in the car at all.
'Get in.'
He put his hand to the door and peered into the back seat, which was a little cell, a little black jail with bars. It smelled of riveted steel. It smelled of harsh antiseptic; it smelled too clean and hard and metallic. There was nothing soft there.
'Now if you had a wife to give you an alibi,' said the iron voice. 'But-'
Uhere are you taking me?'
The car hesitated, or rather gave a faint whirring click, as if information, somewhere, was dropping card by punch- slotted card under electric eyes. 'To the Psychiatric Center for Research on Regressive Tendencies.'
He got in. The door shut with a soft thud. The police car rolled through the night avenues, flashing its dim lights ahead.
They passed one house on one street a moment later, one house in an entire city of houses that were dark, but this one particular house had all of its electric lights brightly lit, every window a loud yellow illumination, square and warm in the cool darkness.
'That's my house,' said Leonard Mead.
No one answered him.
The car moved down the empty riverbed streets and off away, leaving the empty streets with the empty sidewalks, and no sound and no motion all the rest of the chill November night.
By Ray Bradbury
(copied with gratitude from http://englischlehrer.de/texts/pedestrian.php;
original source
The Golden Apples of the Sun by Ray Bradbury, Heinemann Educational Publishers; 1st New edition 1990)
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 2053 A.D., 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 unequal to 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 tomb-like building was still open.
Mr Leonard Mead would pause, cock his head, 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 mid-country. 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 street, 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 anymore. Everything went on in the tomb-like houses at night now, he thought, continuing his fancy. The tombs, ill-lit by television light, where the people sat like the dead, the gray or multi-colored 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?'
'Walking for air. Walking to see.'
'Your address!'
'Eleven South Saint James Street.'
'And there is air in your house, you have an air conditioner, Mr Mead?'
Yes.'
'And you have a viewing screen in your house to see with?'
'No.
'No?' There was a crackling quiet that in itself was an accusation.
'Are you married, Mr Mead?'
'No.'
'Not married,' said the police voice behind the fiery beam. The moon was high and dear among the stars and the houses were gray and silent.
'Nobody wanted me,' said Leonard Mead with a smile.
'Don't speak unless you're spoken to!'
Leonard Mead waited in the cold night.
'Just walking; Mr Mead?'
'Yes.'
But you haven't explained for what purpose.'
'I explained; for air, and to see, and just to walk.'
'Have you done this often?'
Every night for years.'
The police car sat in the center of the street with its radio throat faintly humming.
'Well, Mr Mead', it said.
''s that all?' he asked politely.
'Yes,' said the voice. 'Here.' There was a sigh, a pop. The back doot of the police car sprang wide. 'Get in.'
'Wait a minute, 1 haven't done anything!'
'Get in.'
'I protest!'
'Mr Mead.'
He walked like a man suddenly drunk. As he passed the front window of the car he looked in. As he had expected, there was no one in the front seat, no one in the car at all.
'Get in.'
He put his hand to the door and peered into the back seat, which was a little cell, a little black jail with bars. It smelled of riveted steel. It smelled of harsh antiseptic; it smelled too clean and hard and metallic. There was nothing soft there.
'Now if you had a wife to give you an alibi,' said the iron voice. 'But-'
Uhere are you taking me?'
The car hesitated, or rather gave a faint whirring click, as if information, somewhere, was dropping card by punch- slotted card under electric eyes. 'To the Psychiatric Center for Research on Regressive Tendencies.'
He got in. The door shut with a soft thud. The police car rolled through the night avenues, flashing its dim lights ahead.
They passed one house on one street a moment later, one house in an entire city of houses that were dark, but this one particular house had all of its electric lights brightly lit, every window a loud yellow illumination, square and warm in the cool darkness.
'That's my house,' said Leonard Mead.
No one answered him.
The car moved down the empty riverbed streets and off away, leaving the empty streets with the empty sidewalks, and no sound and no motion all the rest of the chill November night.
NOTES: THE PEDESTRIAN
THEME
INTRO [ Bradbury's Experience & Feelings ]
- Humanity
- Technology
- Authority
1. PLOT
2. CHARACTER
3. TONE
4. CONCLUSION
Outdated- part in where they ask about profession: Writer - No profession
INTRO [ Bradbury's Experience & Feelings ]
- Humanity
- Technology
- Authority
1. PLOT
2. CHARACTER
3. TONE
4. CONCLUSION
Outdated- part in where they ask about profession: Writer - No profession
QUALITIES OF ONLINE CONVERSATIONS YOU SHOULD HAVE
Our Discussion on "The Art of Hosting Good Conversations Online"
Some of the Most Important:
- Have fun
- Avoid Taking Sides
- Maintain connections
- Stay with the Topic
- Encourage people to talk among themselves
- Set a good example
- Value others' perspective
- Be Fair
- Listen (The active part of our brain which is different than hearing)
- Be welcoming
- Accept Everyone
- Create Conditions for Yourself
- Maintain Patience
OUR 3 MAIN:
- SET A GOOD EXAMPLE
- VALUE OTHER"S PERSPECTIVE
- ACCEPT EVERYONE
AGENDA*:
1. Journal
2. Discussion: "The Pedestrian" and tone, character, and plot
3. Discussion: Ethos, Pathos, Logos, Kairos
4. Dissection: "The Art of Hosting Good Conversations Online"
5. Dissection: "The Ethical Challenges Self-Driving Cars Will Face Every Day"
POST:
1. Pre-write your essay. (title: LET ME WALK YOU THROUGH THE PEDESTRIAN)
2. Explain how ethos, pathos, logos, and kairos can be applied by using an example of getting something you want from your parents (title: ANATOMY OF A PERSUASIVE ARGUMENT)
Some of the Most Important:
- Have fun
- Avoid Taking Sides
- Maintain connections
- Stay with the Topic
- Encourage people to talk among themselves
- Set a good example
- Value others' perspective
- Be Fair
- Listen (The active part of our brain which is different than hearing)
- Be welcoming
- Accept Everyone
- Create Conditions for Yourself
- Maintain Patience
OUR 3 MAIN:
- SET A GOOD EXAMPLE
- VALUE OTHER"S PERSPECTIVE
- ACCEPT EVERYONE
DISCUSSION 10/22/2019
AGENDA*:
1. Journal
2. Discussion: "The Pedestrian" and tone, character, and plot
3. Discussion: Ethos, Pathos, Logos, Kairos
4. Dissection: "The Art of Hosting Good Conversations Online"
5. Dissection: "The Ethical Challenges Self-Driving Cars Will Face Every Day"
POST:
1. Pre-write your essay. (title: LET ME WALK YOU THROUGH THE PEDESTRIAN)
2. Explain how ethos, pathos, logos, and kairos can be applied by using an example of getting something you want from your parents (title: ANATOMY OF A PERSUASIVE ARGUMENT)
SO THIS GUY GOES FOR A WALK
Ray Bradbury wrote "The Pedestrian" as a result of letting his imagination go wild. In this short-story we can
So this guy goes for a walk
He was witty, and so he was hassled. Ray Bradbury sat down and try to make sense from his experience and
What drives the story is what is implied.
Describe why Ray Bradbury wrote "The Pedestrian." Explain how what happened in his life contributed to the tone, character, and plot of the story.
So this guy goes for a walk
He was witty, and so he was hassled. Ray Bradbury sat down and try to make sense from his experience and
What drives the story is what is implied.
Describe why Ray Bradbury wrote "The Pedestrian." Explain how what happened in his life contributed to the tone, character, and plot of the story.
SAME WORDS, DIFFERENT PEOPLE
Define: meme
Anthony- an idea spread quickly through media
Jeff- a humorous picture, content that has been copied and spread by Internet Users
Adriana- an idea usually spread rapidly or that is copied by users across the Internet
Define: Internet
Anthony:
Jeff:
Adriana:
Open Source
Dr- Preston: Open source started as a concept in physics
Exchanging pieces; A traditional classroom is a closed system meaning that there is not much interaction and everything was private
Anthony- an idea spread quickly through media
Jeff- a humorous picture, content that has been copied and spread by Internet Users
Adriana- an idea usually spread rapidly or that is copied by users across the Internet
Define: Internet
Anthony:
Jeff:
Adriana:
Open Source
Dr- Preston: Open source started as a concept in physics
Exchanging pieces; A traditional classroom is a closed system meaning that there is not much interaction and everything was private
VOCABULARY WE NEED
Meme- Inside Joke, something( usually a picture) that makes you laugh
virus- a code that is in networks that could attack and hack information
viral- something that spreads really fast; web: a picture, video, source that will spread through the networks, internet
blog-
wiki- a website where anyone is allowed to share information and collect information
URL-
website-
www-
Internet- a place (the network) where information is stored and accessible to everyone
2.0-
Open Source-
* Programming language, is a source code that is free to the public copy, use, modify, and distribute/share
Notes 10/8/19
We fear what things we dont understand
Some follow rules, they fear breaking it
Ameunter: THEY LOVE WHAT THEY DO
Meaning is constructed by us, not by what we read
Learning and Thinking is Never OVER
Long live the Amateur
Sapere Aude- Dare to be Wise
Some follow rules, they fear breaking it
Ameunter: THEY LOVE WHAT THEY DO
Meaning is constructed by us, not by what we read
Learning and Thinking is Never OVER
Long live the Amateur
Sapere Aude- Dare to be Wise
IMPRESSION OF A DREAM
Time does really go by quick : Relatable
We made think we lost it all, but a dream can give us an allusion to think we got it all.
We sometimes have extremely good dreams, so great that we just do not want to wake up.
I feel like some dreams are the best. But not so often do I have one.
More school work, more homework, more things to do.
Every night when I go to sleep the only thing on my mind is the worries about the next day.
(Except on holidays and Friday nights)
I usually am so tired I don't struggle to fall asleep.
If I do fall asleep earlier than I intend to, I panic as I know I couldn't stop time.
Only if time could be still...
We made think we lost it all, but a dream can give us an allusion to think we got it all.
We sometimes have extremely good dreams, so great that we just do not want to wake up.
I feel like some dreams are the best. But not so often do I have one.
More school work, more homework, more things to do.
Every night when I go to sleep the only thing on my mind is the worries about the next day.
(Except on holidays and Friday nights)
I usually am so tired I don't struggle to fall asleep.
If I do fall asleep earlier than I intend to, I panic as I know I couldn't stop time.
Only if time could be still...
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