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Jun. 6th, 2012 09:35 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
darchildreThe first time I can remember encountering Ray Bradbury was through a set of cassette tape recordings of him reading short stories. I got them from the library - I can't remember if I picked them out myself or not. My mom may have pointed them out, since I do remember her being supportive of my interest. I couldn't have been more than 10 or 11, which is probably the perfect age for first encountering Bradbury.
I listened to those tapes over and over. I remember that the stories terrified me, that his reading of them was horrific and fascinating. My experiences with horror up to that point had been confined to works from the 1800s and the kinds of horror that we offer children: Short and Shivery, Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark. Those tapes had The Veldt and The Crowd and The Dwarf. I was hooked. At my school's next book fair, I bought a copy of Something Wicked This Way Comes and read it over and over. I still have that copy.
I loved his science fiction (though I never much cared for Fahrenheit 451) and I loved his stories about boyhood (though I never read Dandelion Wine) but it was his horror I loved best. Even at 10, I was who I am now: the kind of kid who wanted to always live in October. Bradbury got that, understood and fed that longing for the dark and the things inside it. His stories seemed to me to always be filled with saudade, one that I shared, and reading them both satisfied and intensified it. Bradbury is a good companion for a kid who wants to grow up to be a monster.
I spent several years between high school and college thinking that he was dead and was surprised and delighted when he came out with a new book. It was like a letter from a friend you thought you'd never hear from again. But now he's really gone and there will be no more letters. I'll miss him.
Goodbye, Mr Bradbury. I hope it's October where you are.
I listened to those tapes over and over. I remember that the stories terrified me, that his reading of them was horrific and fascinating. My experiences with horror up to that point had been confined to works from the 1800s and the kinds of horror that we offer children: Short and Shivery, Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark. Those tapes had The Veldt and The Crowd and The Dwarf. I was hooked. At my school's next book fair, I bought a copy of Something Wicked This Way Comes and read it over and over. I still have that copy.
I loved his science fiction (though I never much cared for Fahrenheit 451) and I loved his stories about boyhood (though I never read Dandelion Wine) but it was his horror I loved best. Even at 10, I was who I am now: the kind of kid who wanted to always live in October. Bradbury got that, understood and fed that longing for the dark and the things inside it. His stories seemed to me to always be filled with saudade, one that I shared, and reading them both satisfied and intensified it. Bradbury is a good companion for a kid who wants to grow up to be a monster.
I spent several years between high school and college thinking that he was dead and was surprised and delighted when he came out with a new book. It was like a letter from a friend you thought you'd never hear from again. But now he's really gone and there will be no more letters. I'll miss him.
Goodbye, Mr Bradbury. I hope it's October where you are.
