Most of the time, the death of a public figure doesn’t make me do anything but go, “Oh, that’s too bad.”
Ray Bradbury’s loss made me cry.
I do not say this lightly. Ray Bradbury was a huge part of my life. I’ve read (almost) everything he’s written. I adore The Zen of Writing. Fahrenheit451 is the scariest movie I’ve ever seen and the scariest book I’ve ever read. It scares me to look around the world and realize that people haven’t been listening to the warnings inherent in his science fiction.
That being said, Bradbury’s stories are not about technology. They’re about people. About parents and children. About love and loss. About childhood and the scariest part of growing up. His stories are also about wonder. The world he sees is to be lived in, explored, and loved.
They make me laugh, make me cry, and make me stare in wonder at what we can achieve if we try.
I never met Ray Bradbury. I never sent him a letter.
And yet, his death is a personal as losing a close friend.
Goodbye, Mr. Bradbury. I wish I’d met you in person. But I loved you and always will.
You will be remembered.