Book Journal 2015: 2
Dandelion Wine, by Ray Bradbury.
The man at the book store said that this was a wonderful book, but that many of his friends hated it because it was “not like Bradbury’s other stuff.” And it is, and it isn’t. I am very glad I read this book, because it has made me think about Bradbury to a degree I have not done in a long time. From thinking, I have concluded that Bradbury was never a speculative fiction author, as he is so lauded for being. He was a poet, and a magical realist, and it was, perhaps, a result of time and place that made things such that the metaphors that he spoke in were Martians and astronauts and witches and ancient cities. Or maybe it is the case that, in that golden era of science fiction, the science itself was magical enough that one could just say “this is” and never have to worry themselves with even the trappings of how it could be.
Regardless, Dandelion Wine is beautifully poetic language creating a series of short stories held together in a framework that gives it the loose cohesiveness of a musical album. The stories are philosophical and nostalgic and joyous and heartbreaking, like so many stories about childhood are, though they don’t have magic in them, or maybe they do, really when children are involved not even the author has to know. Though not all the stories are about childhood, some of them are about a time and a place, and some are absolutely timeless, with just the conceit of the child witnesses existing to hold the vignettes together. The ones about adults are over-all darker, because adults lend themselves to the sorts of stories where death is the only release from heartbreak and madness, while the only thing children cannot conquer is the inevitability of growing up. But they are all beautiful, and they are all very Bradbury, working in the medium that suited him best.
The man at the book store said that this was a wonderful book, but that many of his friends hated it because it was “not like Bradbury’s other stuff.” And it is, and it isn’t. I am very glad I read this book, because it has made me think about Bradbury to a degree I have not done in a long time. From thinking, I have concluded that Bradbury was never a speculative fiction author, as he is so lauded for being. He was a poet, and a magical realist, and it was, perhaps, a result of time and place that made things such that the metaphors that he spoke in were Martians and astronauts and witches and ancient cities. Or maybe it is the case that, in that golden era of science fiction, the science itself was magical enough that one could just say “this is” and never have to worry themselves with even the trappings of how it could be.
Regardless, Dandelion Wine is beautifully poetic language creating a series of short stories held together in a framework that gives it the loose cohesiveness of a musical album. The stories are philosophical and nostalgic and joyous and heartbreaking, like so many stories about childhood are, though they don’t have magic in them, or maybe they do, really when children are involved not even the author has to know. Though not all the stories are about childhood, some of them are about a time and a place, and some are absolutely timeless, with just the conceit of the child witnesses existing to hold the vignettes together. The ones about adults are over-all darker, because adults lend themselves to the sorts of stories where death is the only release from heartbreak and madness, while the only thing children cannot conquer is the inevitability of growing up. But they are all beautiful, and they are all very Bradbury, working in the medium that suited him best.