[The following essay originally ran on August 22, 2001. Yesterday Bradbury celebrated his 86th birthday.]

Today is the 81st birthday of author Ray Bradbury (who doesn't seem to have an official web site*). Bradbury's been one of my favorites for decades now; he was one of the first "science fiction" authors I encountered who was more concerned with the soft sciences than hardware and blasters. The bulk of his work is clearly science fiction with all the trappings — space travel, high technology, alien races, and the rest — but the stories generally revolve around how little all the futuristic gizmos change the essentials of human nature. A Bradbury tale doesn't resolve neatly with the revelation of some technological trump card — their plots hinge on the ingenuity and mental acuity (or lack thereof) of their protagonists.

Bradbury was also the first author I found who clearly saw poetry in the genre. He is sometimes lumped in with "juvenile" authors due to a seeming lack of complexity in his work, but it's the simplicity which provides its power. His tales are not told in the simple primary colors of his contemporaries, but in as wide a palette as can be imagined, and his images are archetypal and uniquely American, recalling a simpler time of small towns, endless summers, and rockets with fins. Under the plain words and linear plots, however, is an extraordinary depth, and an uncommonly sensitive touch.

But I'm getting all lit-crit here, and that defeats my purpose. Bradbury's work is easy to read, but if you take a moment to savor it fully, it will stay with you. I read my first Bradbury stories thirty-two years ago, and I can remember them as clearly today as yesterday. The only change is my appreciation for his craft.

Happy birthday, Ray, from a kid who's never forgotten the sound of the carousel at night, or the taste of dandelion wine.

He does now, and it includes this wonderful essay about Bradbury's wife, who enabled his career.