"All Things, Once Seen, They Didn’t Just Die, That Couldn’t Be. It Must Be Then That Somewhere, Searching

"But you can't make people listen. They have to come round in their time, wondering what happened and why the world blew up under them."

- Fahrenheit 451, Ray Bradbury

Sunsets are loved because they vanish.

-- Ray Bradbury

(Cluj, Romania)

The Halloween Tree by Ray Bradbury, 1972

The Murderer

“Why didn't I start a solitary revolution, deliver man from certain 'conveniences'? 'Convenient for who?'”

— Ray Bradbury

October Country

...that country where it is always turning late in the year. That country where the hills are fog and the rivers are mist; where noon go quickly, ducks and twilights linger, and midnights stay. That country composed in the main of cellars, sub-cellars, coal bins, closets, attics, and pantries faced away from the sun. That country whose people are autumn people, thinking only autumn thoughts. Whose people passing at night on the empty walks sound like rain...

Ray Bradbury

The stars are yours, if you have the head, the hands, and the heart for them.

R is for Rocket, Ray Bradbury

The Watchful Poker Chip of H. Matisse

“The mob-mind, said his subconscious. You're symbolic of the crowd. They came to study the dreadful vulgarity of this imaginary Mass Man they pretend to hate. But they're fascinated with the snake-pit.”

— Ray Bradbury

                                            Thrown out of Eden                                       Now we headlong humans                                          Sinners sinned against                                                      Return.                                      Tossed from the central sun                                  We with our own concentric fires                                                 Blaze and burn.                                      Once at the hub of wakening                                               And vast starwheel,                              For centuries long-lost, and made to feel                                       Unwanted, orphaned, mindless,                                    Driven forth to grassless gardens,                                             Dead and desert sea,                          We were shut out by comet grooms like Kepler                                                   Galileo Galilei                                Whose short-sight probing light-years                                                  Upped and said:                                               The Hub’s not here!                                      So shot man through the head                         And worse, each starblind prophet killed a part,                                           Snugged shut our souls,                                          Chopped short our reach,                                         Entombed our living heart.                                    But now we bastard sons of time                                         Pronounce ourselves anew                                        And strike fire-hammer blows                          To change tomorrow’s clime, its meteor snows.                                         Our rocket selfhood grows                            To give dull facts a shake, break data down                       To climb the Empire State and thundercry the town                                         But more! reach up and strike                                             And claim from Heaven                                    The Garden we were shunted from,                                               For now, space-driven                                            We fit, fix, force and fuse,                                            Re-hub the systems vast                                                 Respoke starwheel                                             And at the spiraled core                                             Plant foot, full fire-shod                                               And thus saints feel                                          Our yeast like flesh of God.                                         We march back to Olympus,                                      Our plain-bread flesh burns gold!                                        We clothe ourselves in flame                                         And trade new myths for old.                                         The Greek gods christen us                                        With ghosts of comet swords;                                       God smiles and names us thus:                                          "Arise! Run! Fly, my Lords!“

—-

We March Back To Olympus

Ray Bradbury  1920-2012

—-

Graphic - Daniel Maidman  (B.1975)

“A witch is born out of the true hungers of her time.”

— Ray Bradbury, Long After Midnight, 1976