Amazingly, at the age of eighty-two, Ray Bradbury still writes with the passion and gusto of a young boy dreaming awake. He's somehow managed to weather a lifetime's worth of storms while keeping the flame of wonder glowing brightly in his chest. For years, I've been an admirer of Bradbury's lucid, image-pregnant prose, and this new collection--hopefully, in spite of its title, not his last--is the latest reason why.
Those who are returning to Bradbury Country will likely recognize some familiar concerns in this latest batch of stories. Magic and illusion abound, of course, and there are plenty of characters grown wistful for the past. Laurel and Hardy show up for the party, as do Hemingway, Melville, and Nathaniel Hawthorne. There's plenty of time travel, a few dark rooms filled with flickering images, a handful of wild robotic inventions, pairs of heart-sick lovers, and another trip down to Mexico.
But there are some new twists here as well. Bradbury, with his inimitable style and sensibility, takes on some of the gray areas that inhabit our present imperfect. The guilty male moral quagmires of phone sex and Internet porn provide fuel for one of the stories. There is also a pervading sadness and loneliness to these tales that feels uniquely modern. There are plenty of unhappy couples, unfulfilled dreams, and broken connections. This often-gray environment makes all the more poignant the bursts of golden joy and wonder.
Bradbury has always held in one hand the ghostly and in the other the exuberant and when he rubs his hands together and gets down to business, the resultant explosion is felt to the metaphoric corners of Far Rockaway.
Bradbury-lovers rejoice: this is fine vintage. So drink up, and drink deep.