Something Wicked This Way Comes - Ray Bradbury

Admittedly, I have two blogs - one for reviews, the other for musings. This is a hybrid post, but this is the longer neglect'd one, and needs the dusting off.

Ray Bradbury is a curious author to me. He weaves stories, though sometimes his lyrical and rhythmic tangents diverge from the main plot. He thinks out loud about his characters, spinning descriptions and impersonal scenery through emotional filters. Depending on the length and connection it resonates with me as a reader, it can be distracting or endearing.

"We read to know we are not alone." - Shadowlands.

This quote holds me to the candle of bibliophilia, which computers don't recognize as a valid word, but it should be. Bradbury has a short attention span as an author with these tangents. He is good at themes and harping on different perspectives. I first read "The Veldt" because of the DeadMau5 song, and was pleased at the tribute both of them bore. That is a horror story to some extent - quite disquieting in retrospect.

My friend was fond of Bradbury and encouraged me to read further. Martian Chronicles was next - it was excellent in its own way. My favorite chronicle was the rocketship whose crew was given a chinese fire drill treatment, for I could understand the sorrowful truth behind the Martian's unbelief. I was not in love with the author, but was curious and interested enough in seeing the allure through the eyes of my friend to keep reading.

Next came "The Illustrated Man," a concept which Mr. Bradbury threaded through many of his tales in different incarnations.  This collection of short stories was also hit and miss for me. I didn't understand all of the settings, or why he found certain tales worth the telling.  In the end, that collection probably had at least one story which would appeal to a reader, perhaps different ones than I enjoyed.

Previous to "Wicked this way," I read his novel "Graveyard for Lunatics" concerning a young writer and his special effects wizard friend, and the surreal mystery into which they fall at the studio. I saw the end before it came, but not how all the players would fall into place in the story.  It took a while for me to make my way through the book.  This is where I first noticed Bradbury's tendency to wander off into minor tangents. I forgive him that, but it does a wide-angle drawback on the story; an overhead view of the characters scurrying below like ants in a farm.

And currently: Something Wicked This Way Comes.  I encountered the curious properties of the carrousel in "The Thief Lord" by Cornelia Funke. Similar to Shakespearean tropes after the fact, I know that Bradbury's use came first, but you can hardly blame someone for the ill luck of having been born later. I am interested for good stretches of the book, and I know that rushing a masterpiece is unfair to expect.  I want to like Bradbury, but my mind is tapping its foot with the plot, wanting to see what he plans to do with the characters.

For we are the dream stealers, always chasing what is incorporeal. Sneaking off in the dead of night; dancing out percussion on the old boardwalk. Come, the carnival calls us. The mirrors reflect all but what is true, a man can lose his boyhood in the forest of metal faces.  What of the redhead, whose eyes burn with ancient hatred? He glows electric and his whispers are poison.  Does no one listen? Does no one see? Can you hear the screams and wailing of a child betrayed as years slip like sand? Hourglass, time passes. The old librarian is tall. Will may find a way to jim open the mystery. Can he wait? Is he wise beyond his years? Run, never stop, the shadow trails the golden child. Tied from birth, they were destined to be inseparable.  Look to the sky - the dust witch cackles as her hands feel the world below. The illustrated man's skin lives and breathes, he feeds on the misery, ageless from the rotation of a Funeral March played in reverse. Don't tell your mothers, they will only wring their hands and keep you locked away. A parade of freaks, transformed beyond recognition. Does the soul survive when the vessel is twisted? Stories are powerful in their structure, wait for their shape to rise. Like calliopes in a valley at twilight - unfolding before your waking eyes.