Ray Bradbury. photo credit: Alan Light

Ray Bradbury has died

By the pricking of my thumbs, this Ray of joy, to death succumbs. Sorry, I couldn't resist that.

One of my favourite authors, Ray Bradbury, died last week. I feel I should include some clever quotation here because he left so many of them. However, none of them could recall for me the quiet, lyrical, internal voice I always heard, even when reading his darkest passages. Instead I think there is something of that voice in a poem by W.B.Yeats that Bradbury most certainly knew: "The Song of Wandering Aengus".

In my mind these last few lines belong more to Bradbury now, than to Yeats:

And walk through long green dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.

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