Goodbye, Ray Bradbury

Author Ray Bradbury died today in Los Angeles. He was 91. As a child of the pre-Internet, Bradbury's writing was just on the apex between a grave, plastic future foreseen by Star Wars and the brushwork and filigree of the dreams and hopes of a previous century. Reading him was like reading a story written on a cave wall - true, indelible, and exceedingly strange. He wrote horror without being bloody, he wrote sci-fi without being fussy, and he wrote of lives that went on long before mine. He wrote about what had happened in the basements of our childhood homes fifty, seventy five years before. He explained the fear hidden in the root cellar and the spice of old bottles of homemade catsup kept in the garage. He explained why grandpa had a jar of mismatched screws (he was probably building something wonderful, long ago) and told us about fire balloons and martians and murderers. He told us what to expect at the end of the world and he told us to watch out for our kids. He told us books were important and he told us that old people were once children.

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