Goodby Mr. Bradbury

I am not a reader of science fiction, but there are some writers who transcend genres. I think that my first introduction to Ray Bradbury was "Something Wicked This Way Comes", the Disney movie mind you, not even the book. But God I loved that movie. I, of course, read and loved "Farenheit 451" in high school and for the first time I realized that science fiction didn't all have to be about space and aliens. My first glimpse into a dystopian future and the worst possible future it could be. One without books, my one salvation. A book where I positively knew that I really would be a rebel if I lived in that world. I would have secret rooms built to protect my literature, my life. A book that showed me how precious knowledge was. There have been numerous short stories, in numerous anthologies that I have read, and always, no matter how fantastical the material, it is the humanity of his writing that I feel connected to. This poetic, loving, understanding of people.

For me though, my favorite Bradbury is "The Halloween Tree". My father bought me this book when I was probably around 11 or 12 maybe, and it was incredible. It's more a children's book, about a group of trick or treaters who meet a mysterious stranger at the haunted house at the end of town and chase their ailing friend's soul through the ages and the autumnal celebrations of death. The way he wrote about October and Halloween and autumn, spelled out on paper feeligs that I could never have put words to, and it was like finding a secret colony that spoke a language that I understood. It was just beautiful and it's one of those books that I read every year usually. It was one of those books that made me my own person.

So tonight, on the eve of Mr. Bradbury's passing, I honor him by turning off the tv, going to my local bookstore and finally reading "Something Wicked This Way Comes" and I can already feel his gorgeous autumnal world welcoming me with open arms.

A PINCH OF SALT

When a dream is born in you
With a sudden clamorous pain,
When you know the dream is true
And lovely, with no flaw nor stain,
O then, be careful, or with sudden clutch
You'll hurt the delicate thing you prize so much.

Dreams are like a bird that mocks,
Flirting the feathers of his tail.
When you seize at the salt-box
Over the hedge you'll see him sail.

Old birds are neither caught with salt nor chaff:
They watch you from the apple bough and laugh.

Poet, never chase the dream.
Laugh yourself and turn away.
Mask your hunger, let it seem
Small matter if he come or stay;
But when he nestles in your hand at last,
Close up your fingers tight and hold him fast.

- Robert Graves