Original subtitles

People ask, where do you get your ideas?

Well, right here.

All this is mine.

I'll never starve here.

I'm Ray Bradbury.

And this is...

I'm surrounded by file after file of

ideas, stories, poems, and fragments of novels put away over some 40 years.

I go through them constantly, and whichever story, poem, or play cries the

loudest to be born gets written. But I've often wondered, if someone said to

your stories or your life, would I save my life or my stories? And so, the

wonderful death of Dudley Stone was born.

Hope you enjoy it.

Thank you, Mr. Stone.

I hope you enjoy it. Thank you, Mr. Stone.

Hope you enjoy it.

It's going very well.

Come on, he would tell us.

I, as his publisher, tell you that this new book will be great.

But the next one, and we've just signed the contract, will be a masterpiece.

Well, well, hello.

John and Miss Kendall, isn't it?

A fledgling writer?

Did you ever finish that?

Was it a novel or a book of poetry?

What would you like me to write in my book for you?

Easily done.

Just give me a moment.

Are we finished?

Done?

Drink. Dream.

For everyone.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow.

You are dead.

Contempt, of course.

Thank goodness we meet only once a year.

A toast to Dudley Stone, one of the great

unfulfilled novelists, short story writers and poets in American history.

Dudley Stone.

Dudley Stone. Wherever he is. Dead.

Suicide. No. Car crash.

Drown. No, rumor has it that he was seen last year in Morocco in the company of

a tall blonde.

Or a short Moroccan.

Think what he might have done had he lived.

I know.

He died 20 years ago today.

Gentlemen, not only am I glad to be here as your guest of honor in what has been

a wonderful year for me,

I am happy that this year we are here to celebrate his murder.

Will you drink a toast to me who destroyed a living legend?

I myself, then.

I did it.

It's true.

I brought him to slaughter.

Dudley Stone, you monster of perfection, you sublime writer.

Damn your eyes that saw, your soul that knew, your hands that wrote.

Shall I confess?

Shall I tell you how I enticed him to destruction and cut short a life?

I was 32, a hopeful writer.

who had lost hope.

What could I do?

Go see Dudley Stone.

I was afraid you changed your mind.

Come in.

Just in time for my 40th birthday.

A day of decisions.

Come in.

Sarah here.

This is Mr. Kendall.

Where are the children?

They're next door.

What shall I wish for, Mr. Kendall?

You know why I'm here.

Well, then, let's feed your wish.

Like a lemonade.

Don't. Oh, but we'll need it.

Skol.

Skol.

Now, exactly what is your wish for me?

To die.

Easily said.

Not so easily done unless you believe it.

Lost faith.

Need courage.

It comes by the glass.

And exactly how do you plan to eliminate me?

My God, how can you sit there like that when you know why I'm here?

I see no threat.

And I'm a writer, am I not?

A jackdaw collector, bright object, ideas,

dialogue. I mean, right now you're saying things I've never heard before,

I'm making notes here, but continue.

Oh, one solid steel metaphor worth 10 ,000 words. Is it loaded?

Then I'd better speak fast. There is nothing that you can say.

But there is.

You see, I've waited for you to come here for years.

When I saw you at the book launching, I saw murder in your face.

And hear this.

I will now. happily met you.

Go ahead.

Do it.

It's a bit hard now that you've given me permission.

Why?

Why you?

Your motive for murdering.

I have a list.

Read it.

You have written too many books.

True. All of them excellent.

Agreed. How do I hate thee?

Not only novels, but poetry.

Not only poetry, but essays. Not content with that.

Page plays.

One more, sure, why not?

Screen plays.

Lectures on city planning, transportation, architecture,

Is there no end to you?

You are a flood tide, an upheaval, an unnatural force of nature. You shrink us

all to pygmies and disfire ants. No more of it. No more.

Agreed. Agreed.

What's wrong with you?

Genes.

Chromosomes. I was born a pomegranate.

Full of seeds.

Yes. And that is the final reason why I hate you. I was born a

poor beast with no seeds.

I have labored 18 hours a day, seven days a week for seven years

to be, to become, to achieve, and became and achieved

nothing. My heart was high, but my chemistry...

Pathetically absent.

There can be no room for me in a universe inhabited by you.

Your fame is my death.

Through your death, I shall live.

Oh, God.

How I love your work.

But how I hate you because you write so well.

I can't bear it any longer.

So, I am going to cut you off before you reach your prime.

They say your next book will be your most brilliant.

Exaggerate. My guess is that they're right.

It's all right, dear.

It's all right.

Are you quite done, finished and through?

Because all we've heard are your reasons for wanting to assassinate me. Now you

must hear my reasons for letting you do bloody murder.

The Grand Tour.

All the books I've promised myself to read, but I've never read.

All the symphonies yet to be heard.

All the films as yet unseen.

Spices waiting to be snuffed.

Meat joints, ham hocks waiting to be devoured.

Tapestries yet to be woven, sculptures to be shaped, paintings waiting to be

painted.

Sons and daughters to be advised, grandchildren to be raised, far

to be flown over, to be walked through, hang -hiding yet to be tried, tides yet

unswum to be swum, all of it around me, free and vital, beckoning, waiting.

My reasons for letting you kill me.

But these are reasons to live, not to die.

Wrong.

Reasons to die.

So that I might be reincarnated to truly live.

Reincarnated?

And you will baptize me with darkness that I might awaken unto light.

Come alive to my children.

To my wife.

They're more important to me than my writing.

I'm tired.

Tired of being the champ.

You can help me.

Put aside your pistol.

Allow me to choose the weapons that will truly kill me dead.

Here.

And here.

Stow your weapon.

This is not a trick. Here, grab a hold.

New book of essays, new book of poetry, new book of short stories, and new

novel. New.

Collected letters, a biography, a new beginning school play, a

screenplay.

This way, Mr. Kendall.

Here.

Come, this way.

Careful.

Wouldn't want to lose my execution.

Well, here we are.

There it is.

My future.

My tomorrow and beyond tomorrow.

Leave it over.

Leave it over? You can't mean that.

Row.

Towards her.

Disperse like this.

Tumble with on the shore like tight in the wind.

Go on.

Go.

One.

Page two.

Bleach. Oh!

God in heaven, these are the only copies in the whole world.

Kill!

Am I dead?

Dead.

20 years ago this very day.

Mr. Stone?

My bloody murderer.

Twenty years to the day.

Your readers, your fans, your literary society is here, Mr. Stone.

Have you stayed dead, Mr. Stone?

I have written stories and novels.

Only in my head, sir.

Is your typewriter there?

Is there paper beside it?

Yes. When I hang up, start typing.

You give me permission?

Why? No, no, don't tell.

Your novels are on the bestseller list now.

Yes.

Sit at your typewriter, Mr. Stone.

I don't know.

Do it, Mr. Stone.

Mr. Kendall?

Yes. My death 20 years ago.

The terrible pain you must have thought that I endured.

Let me share my secret with you, Mr. Kendall.

Writing was never life to me. It was mustard and gallweed.

Fidgeting words on paper.

Experiencing vast depressions of heart and soul. I was bent.

Finished. Ready to fling the pack.

The books that we destroyed that day, they were bad.

And they would have got worse.

My writing would have killed me better than you ever could.

My secret.

The great literary public would never know that I was going downhill.

I got out in time.

On top, which is where I guess you got to now.

You're the world champion at present.

I'd be like it.

Do you enjoy the company?

Is there any young challenger waiting and training in the gymnasium?

Thank you, Mr. Kendall, for delivering me into life.

I wish I could do as much for you.

Okay, okay. Everybody now make a wish.

Ready?

One, two...