Ray Bradbury died this morning.
He knew that words can dance in prose as well as poetry, and his words expanded the size of the world. He gave heartbreaking tours through October Country. He made a whole new batch of kids point telescopes at Mars.
Just a few days ago the New Yorker published his essay “Take Me Home.” His death adds a new harmony underneath the tune of his words, one that was not there when he was still alive–which was yesterday. He is saying goodbye.
Here’s a quote:
The creative beast in me grew when Buck Rogers appeared, in 1928, and I think I went a trifle mad that autumn. It’s the only way to describe the intensity with which I devoured the stories. You rarely have such fevers later in life that fill your entire day with emotion.
When I look back now, I realize what a trial I must have been to my friends and relatives. It was one frenzy after one elation after one enthusiasm after one hysteria after another. I was always yelling and running somewhere, because I was afraid life was going to be over that very afternoon.