In Memoriam

Yes, I know I am rather behind on my blog posts--there are still some events from April I need to post about (my little brother-in-law's lovely wedding); and some big events that have happened recently (i.e. my third child's entrance into the world). And I will get on those this week.

But today, today I am in mourning.

I just read about the passing of Ray Bradbury two days ago. Those of you who know me well know my undying love for the man, for his writing. He looked at language the way a composer looks at music (I imagine, anyway, not having any real ability to draw from when it comes to composing music). He builds his sentences to ebb and flow, to run together in musical rivers, every word chosen to fit into the harmony of the sentence. You don't really read his words, you sing them. I am captivated by every paragraph. Enthralled. In ecstasies. And yes, that sounds rather dramatic. But if you've read much of Mr. Bradbury (no, not just Fahrenheit 451), you understand. And you probably agree. Yes, I will be presumptuous and say you agree.

I actually didn't read Fahrenheit 451 until college; and quite frankly, though it is beautiful, it is not my favorite of his works. The first Bradbury book I read was Something Wicked This Way Comes. I was astounded! And I was addicted. I bought books and books of his collections of short stories. I read them over and over. There is one in particular--"The Burning Man"--Nothing happens in the story. Nothing. A boy and his mom pick up a hitchhiker, who drives along with them for a while. Absolutely nothing. And I still remember feeling haunted, a sinister sense of something coming..... He can do that with zero action. That story made me want to be a writer. That one story about nothing that gave me chills and left me wondering.

And I've pretty much read everything else since. I love The Martian Chronicles, the way he created the Martian landscape in a new way, different and lovely and melancholy. And The Halloween Tree and From The Dust Returned speak to my eerie side, but with a touch of grace only he could write just perfectly. I love Dandelion Wine, it's poignant tribute to summers as a child. And did you know he wrote every single day of his adult life?

And so I bid farewell to a literary giant. A man to whom I have always wanted to dedicate my own published work someday. A man that built my imagination, and fueled it, and matured it. To the creator of Martian worlds and haunted carnivals and malevolent planets and captured childhood perfections and regal family reunions of the dead..... etc. etc.

To a writer, the first to change me. To Ray.