I was around twelve years old when I first read a story by Ray Bradbury. His work captured
the mysteries of both the familiar and the world beyond. The wind blowing through small midwestern
towns, the longing whistle of the train in the middle of the night, the oddities of the circus world, the trips to other planets, all rendered in thoughtful
prose that did not call attention to itself. Instead, Bradbury used
words to paint a picture, snatch an observation, catch an emotion.
Bradbury
would have undoubtedly woven a terrific story out of the dusty copies
of his works that I rescued from my parents' basement, books that were
among the first that I purchased myself--for a quarter each--at a used
bookstore later obliterated by urban renewal.
Were his stories
fantasy or science fiction? To me, they were reality always taken a step
further, asking questions that should be asked, giving answers that
provoked even more mystery.
Ray Bradbury's many works--Dandelion
Wine, October Country, Something Wicked This Way Come, Fahrenheit 451,
The Illustrated Man--stand as testament to a life of words well
done.
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