a toast of wine and dandelions

i had hoped (unreasonably, illogically) that i would not have to find the words to say this for some time..

i inhaled ray bradbury as a teenager. part of the triad of my youth (dickens, bradbury, conan doyle), he remained there, for a while, gently collecting dust. when i re-read the martian chronicles in my 20s and was again struck by the beauty of his quiet prose--the improbable depth of his barren lives and worlds--the corners of my life curled inward in a trance.

i'm certain that in the coming years i will find more to love.. more to criticize.. for bradbury, having published his first collection at 27, wrote always like an old man, watching the passing of time.

gone, now, is a literary giant, a great talent, a natural storyteller. but most of all--a reader.

rest in peace