Dirty paws turn me to jelly. I watch his bulldog digging up the rosemary while he talks of mortgages. “Hey,” I say, “want to go inside?” But he’s still talking about interest rates and terms when we go in, and the dog is still swinging away in the sun, too far away, beyond the sliding glass patio doors.
Ray Bradbury died. Of course, my favorite story of his is "The Veldt." Or maybe it's, "Boys! Grow Giant Mushrooms in Your Basement!" That's actually one of the scariest stories of all time.
Or maybe my favorite is any one of those where people have come to Mars, found the remains of a civilization, and moved into it as if they could ever inhabit it. As if the Martians have truly gone.
The Martians are never gone. If you don't believe me, cut open your chest and look inside.
I don't like Fahrenheit 451, except for the end, particularly the movie ending, where we see people walking around in a shady forest just beyond the reach of society, hands behind their backs, repeating to themselves over and over the particular book they've memorized.
I would memorize Jane Eyre, but everyone will memorize that, so it should probably be something else. Something less known or less loved. Loren Eisley's The Immense Journey, which I've reviewed here before.
I have already memorized the short note that Mr. Bradbury wrote to me when replying to my fan letter in the early 1990s. That will always stay with me.
And I will always be wishing for one more story, Mr. Bradbury.