To toast the father of miracles and mundanities
In the summer of a day.
Golden eyed colonies,
And mythical cousins
Captured by the poet laureate
Of extraordinary dreams.
All lost a father today.
R.I.P. Ray Bradbury (1920-2012)
Ray Bradbury was one of those authors whose prose reads like poetry. He had the gift of making the mundane extraordinary and the extraordinary seem mundane.
A few years ago I described my relationship with his work thusly:
I cannot remember how it was that I discovered Ray Bradbury in junior high, but from the moment I first read his stories they were absolutely magical to me. Perhaps I wanted to read the book Something Wicked This Way Comes because I loved watching the movie on HBO. Perhaps I stumbled across a story in an anthology. However it was, finding Bradbury was like opening a treasure chest, but instead of gold and jewels, I found entire new worlds. A friend of mine loaned me a copy of a collection of 100 Bradbury stories and I devoured them - "All Summer in a Day", "Dark They Were, But Golden Eyed", "A Sound of Thunder"...these were the background to my budding adolescence. I used "The October Game" as one of my selections for Prose Reading in Speech competition...my sophomore year, maybe? It brought rooms to a standstill. I still get that feeling of holding something precious when I read one of his books - especially the short story collections, which are like a string of perfect pearls.
I would be hard pressed to think of a single author whose work touched me so deeply and who captured both my mind and my heart so utterly. Peace be with you Mr. Bradbury. If there is a beyond, may you explore it as thoroughly and as joyfully as you did this one.