By coincidence I started a blog about writing books called Fahrenheit 23 a few days before Ray Bradbury, the author of a book about burning books called Fahrenheit 451, died. I haven't read Fahrenheit 451 and didn't finish The Martian Chronicles. The obituaries say he was a master of shorter formats, and the New York Times uses an extract from an autobiographical novel, Dandelion Wine, to demonstrate his child-like sense of wonder.
“Dandelion Wine” begins before dawn on the first day of summer. From a window, Douglas Spaulding, 12, looks out upon his town, “covered over with darkness and at ease in bed.” He has a task to perform.
“One night each week he was allowed to leave his father, his mother, and his younger brother Tom asleep in their small house next door and run here, up the dark spiral stairs to his grandparents’ cupola,” Mr. Bradbury writes, “and in this sorcerer’s tower sleep with thunders and visions, to wake before the crystal jingle of milk bottles and perform his ritual magic.
“He stood at the open window in the dark, took a deep breath and exhaled. The streetlights, like candles on a black cake, went out. He exhaled again and again and the stars began to vanish.”
Now he begins to point his finger — “There, and there. Now over here, and here ...” — and lights come on, and the town begins to stir.
“Clock alarms tinkled faintly. The courthouse clock boomed. Birds leaped from trees like a net thrown by his hand, singing. Douglas, conducting an orchestra, pointed to the eastern sky.
“The sun began to rise.
“He folded his arms and smiled a magician’s smile. Yes, sir, he thought, everyone jumps, everyone runs when I yell. It’ll be a fine season.
“He gave the town a last snap of his fingers.
“Doors slammed open; people stepped out.
“Summer 1928 began.”Bradbury didn't take himself seriously, and was sceptical of anyone that did, preferring to play with words, to entertain.