Was going to write about the Sotheby’s case that invalidated the California Resale Royalties Act as unconstitutional, but that can wait.
Today I mourn the passing of Ray Bradbury.
Andrea and I met him once, in Glendale, at a library book signing. He was jovial, gentle and sweet.
But that wasn’t the first time I had met him. I met him twice, actually.
The first time, was when I was about 13. A friend delivered newspapers to the building on Wilshire and Beverly where Bradbury had a office. I was an avid Sci-Fi fan, and wanted to be a writer.
I begged Rob to show me Bradbury’s office.
He took me up there and I knocked. Bradbury answered the door and invited us into to his cluttered, paper strewn two room office. I later wrote him a letter and he responded, saying “write everyday.”
Years later, when I met him with Andrea, I asked “Do you remember when two little boys knocked on your office door?” His response: “Of course I remember you.”
This week’s New Yorker has his aptly named piece by Mr. Bradbury. It’s entitled “Take Me Home”; here’s brief quote:
“Once the fire got going, the balloon whispered itself fat with the hot …air rising inside. But I could not let it go. It was so beautiful, with the light and shadows dancing inside. Only when Grandpa gave me a look, and a gentle nod of his head, did I at last let the balloon drift free, up past the proch, illuminating the faces of my family. It floated up above the apple trees, over the beginning-to-sleep town, and across the night among the stars.”
Goodbye, Mr. Bradbury. And thank you.