R.I.P. Ray Bradbury

I dipped my toe into the vast ocean of science fiction when I was young. The dozens of dog-eared paperbacks at the local library fascinated me -- and scared me: I was susceptible to nightmares and it didn't take much to set me off.

I don't remember when or how I figured this out, but at some point I came to understand that SF broke down into two large categories: the "hard" SF works that were technology-centric, and everything else (which, curiously enough, didn't have a descriptive name like "hard"). "Everything else" could include fantasies, more psychologically complex works, alternate histories ... basically everything that didn't have to do with spaceships or robots. I own to being a little vague about "everything else" because my preference was strongly for hard SF, not least because it didn't give me nightmares.

The Big Three hard SF authors were Asimov, Heinlein and Clarke, the "deans of science fiction" as critiques and commentaries about SF proclaimed again and again. Yet annoyingly enough, a lot of commentators insisted on adding a fourth name: Bradbury.

Bradbury's works fell into the nightmare-inducing category for me. The Martian Chronicles was my first encounter when a well-meaning relative gave me a copy as a Christmas present. The stories weren't to my taste, yet they were weirdly compelling and compellingly weird; they left me unsettled, yet unable to comprehend why. If Asimov's tales were big, bold Statements Of The Future done in broad but exact strokes, Bradbury's tales were Impressionist sketches of less clear-cut subjects. Bradbury had an eye for how humanity's less noble instincts -- or simply bad luck -- could diminish or subvert its mere technological prowess.

Here's the effect a Bradbury story could have on me: the image I took away from his famous short story "A Sound of Thunder" was not of the hunting party, nor of the carnivorous dinosaur that pursued them. Rather, it was that of the squashed butterfly. I have never seen a filmed version, nor have I read the story in decades, yet in my mind's eye, clear as day, is that hapless insect, embedded in the thick coating of mud on a hiking boot. It is huge, perfectly formed (no torn wings), and its markings are delineated by thick, garish black fuzz that almost seems to glow, it's so prominent. It is like a leering, demonic face, mocking me with the promise of no happy ending for humanity. The "sound of thunder" closing the story is perversely anticlimactic by comparison.

No Asimov tale ever left so strong an impression, and I read a lot more of his output than Bradbury's.

So even though I never much cottoned to his work, I can but tip my imaginary hat to Ray Bradbury, and thank him for showing me that science fiction stories could be more than space operas with heroic square-jawed engineers. I might not have liked the worlds he opened up, but I, and science fiction, needed them.

Bradbury passed away Tuesday (5 June 2012). Michiko Kakutani penned a nice appreciation.