The Illustrated Man – Ray Bradbury
I am on a plane and have literally just finished Ray Bradbury’s The Illustrated Man. There is within me a burning immediacy, a furnace of response and emotion that is bubbling to the surface and simply *must* get out. I hadn’t read Bradbury since high school, and I had only engaged with the requisite Fahrenheit 451 and The Martian Chronicles, though I remember both being very, very good. What I want out of life is to write, and to write well. In order to write well–at least according to many authors, bloggers and the relative wisdom of my personal experience–one must read as often or more often than one sits with pen or at the keyboard. Insert pause here, wherein I deplane, get a ride back to work, hop in my car, drive home, unpack, relax, get completely distracted reestablishing myself at home, then wake up the next morning to
