Many years ago, a small boy was born into this blue world. Years later, he chose to live forever.
This boy never grew up. He fell in love with dinosaurs, with space travel, with aliens, with Mars, with the night sky, with autumn leaves and summer tennis shoes, with winter winds and spring nights; he fell in love with the little things – he fell in love with life, and he never fell out of it.
He lived in the library, and haunted bookstores. He packed his mind with metaphors until they burst out onto paper in words and ideas and concepts so beautiful, so haunting, so intriguing, so wonderfully strung together that they have captured the minds of generations, and held tight.
Mr. Ray Bradbury was a Poet, an artists of wordplay and metaphor. His writing speaks to one’s hidden, inner self – the part of you that spends so much time hiding in the back of your skull, too scared to scream out, “I’m here!”
Ray Bradbury let that part of his mind shout and scream as much as it wanted to, and he listened to every word.
Happy Birthday, Mr. Bradbury. I hope you celebrate it with Mr. Poe, and Mr. Verne – with a glass of Dandelion Wine, and a new pair of running shoes.