Ray Bradbury Dies at Ninety-One

Hello Beardies,

Although I am sure most of you may have already heard--myself only hearing of it around 8:00PM today through an email from Elizabeth--but we have experienced another loss in the literary world.

Ray Bradbury, in 1966, with a picture that was part of a school project
to illustrate characters in one of his dramas.

Ray Bradbury--one of speculative fiction's finest and author of titles such as his dystopian novel, Fahrenheit 451, and fantasy/horror novel, Something Wicked this Way Comes--died Tuesday in Los Angeles at the age of ninety-one.   Read More >>>

I admittedly have only read one Ray Bradbury title: Dandelion Wine. The language was sweet, melodic, mysterious, and I fell in love with the author, never realizing until later on in life that the story was autobiographical.

As my own age creeps toward the higher numbers in life, it saddens me to witness the passing of so many greats... yet, at the same time, witnessing the literary birth of so many others makes me wonder what blogger of the future will be posting on the passing of today's great achievers.

In all honesty, however, artists are immortal.  Though we lose the corporeal vessel which once housed them, their souls live on in the words upon the pages, the notes of a sonata or symphony, or the oil upon the canvas.  And with that thought, I leave you a few of Ray's own words of immortality.

“It was the face of spring, it was the face of summer, it was the warmness of clover breath. Pomegranate glowed in her lips, and the noon sky in her eyes. To touch her face was that always new experience of opening your window one December morning, early, and putting out your hand to the first white cool powdering of snow that had come, silently, with no announcement, in the night. And all of this, this breath-warmness and plum-tenderness was held forever in one miracle of photographic is chemistry which no clock winds could blow upon to change one hour or one second; this fine first cool white snow would never melt, but live a thousand summers.”  --Dandelion Wine

 Magical, isn't it?


May You Rest In Peace, Mr. Bradbury...
...as your words never will...

*** Dandelion Wine (1957), by Ray Bradbury, is published and copyright by Doubleday.  It is available in stores, online, or in your local library.

In Loving Memory of Jean Craighead George

Good Evening Beardies,

It is with much sadness and a heavy heart that I bring you news of yet another literary loss.

{2 July 1919 - 15 May 2012}

Jean Craighead George, author of such novels as My Side of the Mountain, On the Far Side of the Mountain, and Julie of the Wolves, died today.  

Even though she is not an author of traditional fantasy, when I was growing up, the three novels mentioned above struck a certain magical spark within me... and for that reason, among several others, I thought it only appropriate for The Bearded Scribe to pay its respects to such a wonderful woman and talented writer.

Of course, I have to give credit to Elizabeth, who--when I told her I was struggling to decide on a topic for today's post--told me about Jean's passing and suggested a Memorial post.  I hadn't yet heard of Jean's death, but Elizabeth (being a librarian) was privy to the information via the listserv at work.

Jean Craighead was born on July 2, 1919 in Washington and raised in a family of naturalist.  Her family often camped in the woods near their home in Washington state, undoubtedly lighting the intellectual fires for the majority of Jean's nature-based novels.  Later on in her life and over the years at her home in Chappaqua, New York, Jean kept more than 170 animals (not including dogs and cats).  To quote her on this topic:

"Most of these wild animals depart in autumn when the sun changes their behaviour and they feel the urge to migrate or go off alone. While they are with us, however, they become characters in my books, articles, and stories."

Jean's stories evoke a sense of her own unity with nature... perhaps that is why I felt such a magical spark when I read them as a child.  I was then and am now a lover of animals and nature, perhaps a bit of a naturalist myself.  For those of you who are unfamiliar with the writings of Jean C. George, please visit your local bookstore [or library] and pick up a copy of at least one (if not all) of the three books mentioned above.

May you Rest in Peace, Jean...