Death is a Lonely Business

When I was a child, I read almost all of Ray Bradbury's books and short stories. I wasn't wildly impressed by his science fiction (except for Fahrenheit 451), but the tales that lay in between horror and what would later be called magical realism had me spellbound. In particular, Dandelion Wine, The Halloween Tree and Something Wicked This Way Comes are classics, and I suspect they influenced writers like Robert McCammon and Stephen King considerably (It and Needful Things are particularly Bradburyesque).

After that, I almost forgot about him, and was surprised to find that he resumed his writing career in 1985, after a break of thirteen years. This shows how out of touch I am with the literary world. I stumbled across a dog-eared copy of Death is a Lonely Business in the library, and am lapping it up. My first question was whether Bradbury would still have the same old magic in his words. The answer?

Things are good at their beginnings. But how rarely in the history of men and small towns or big cities is the ending good.

Then, things fall apart. Things turn to fat. Things sprawl. The time gets out of joint. The milk sours. By night the wires on the high poles tell evil tales in the dripping mist. The water in the canals goes blind with scum. Flint, struck, gives no spark. Women, touched, give no warmth.

Summer is suddenly over.

Yup, same old Ray.