I wrote no more than a week ago about having read and
re-read Ray Bradbury’s, “Zen and the Art of Writing.” While the collection has definitely had an
impact on my writing since I first got it more than a decade ago, Bradbury’s
influence goes much, much further back than that. I don’t know that there’s a single real writer
of sci-fi, fantasy or even horror, amateur or professional, who’s put pen to
paper (literally or otherwise) in the last fifty years who can’t say the same,
even if it’s once or twice removed.
As a kid, Bradbury brought horror home. If Vonnegut was the voice of small town America,
loud and real and deep, Bradbury was the whisper that carried through the trees
on windy autumn evenings of something just outside the purview of the world we
know. And I loved it.
When I got older, he took me off to faraway worlds filled
with adventure and, something vastly important and which it seems is so often
overlooked in the genre today, he made me genuinely think, truly question the
world in which I lived and the direction in which it was headed. That’s the mark of a master in any genre, and
more so in sci-fi and fantasy.
What’s more, he did what all true artists in any medium who’ve
achieved a modicum of success are obligated to do, which was foster the next
generations, seeing them not as competition, but rather as new voices which
needed to be heard.
Ray Bradbury died last night, at the age of 91. Whether you realize it or not, if you read,
if you watch movies, if you’ve attended school, he’s touched your life in some
way. If you’ve experienced his worlds,
go back and do so again. If you haven’t,
head there now and I promise you won’t be disappointed, though you may lose a
bit of sleep.
Amazon's Ray Bradbury Page
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