On Ray Bradbury

2002-05-23 - 9:03 a.m.

Damn you Ray Bradbury.

I'm reading "One More For the Road," the latest collection of his short stories. I read the "Martian Chronicles" ages ago, and he is a legend, so I figured why not?

I'll tell you why not, he sucks. Or rather, he's good, but it's too easy. Reading Bradbury is like hearing about someone who invented something terribly simple and made a fortune at it. You can't help but think, "why didn't I do that?" Reading Bradbury is like meeting the guy who came up with the pet rock, the cocktail umbrella, the plastic thing at the end of your shoe lace.

As a person who has a fondness for arranging words on paper in clever ways, a collection of Bradbury stories is like being repeatedly punched lightly in the face. They're so short, they're so simple. They don't end terribly well most of the time, his descriptions are hit or miss, vivid or vague. His grammar is questionable. Bumble bees shouldn't theoretically be able to fly, and Bradbury shouldn't theoretically be able to sell a story.

And yet, there's just something about it all.

As absolutely clich� as it sounds, his stories do play that chord of Americana in me. His stories are the apple pie, the Chevy, the porch swing, sandlot baseball, glass bottles of Coca Cola, local newspapers, the road trip and truckstop diners. They hint at depth but end before having to commit. His stories are small-town-boy-does-good. Their charming simplicity is undeniable, and worse, addictive.

I just wish I'd done it first.