Dandelion Wine by Ray Bradbury
184 pages
Published 1957
Read from September 5 to September 9
Rating: ★★★★ out of 5
When
better to read a book of summer heats and magic and an idyll of small
town childhood than in the grip of a September heatwave? I'm afraid I
have nothing inspired to say in response to this "fixup" (as they used
to call them in the science fiction industry) of short stories and
vignettes, but when has a lack of anything interesting to say stood in
the way of my reviews before? There's the obvious critique that
Bradbury's idealized Midwest town is as white as its late summer skies,
that this is a book of privileged upbringing and miraculous grandmothers
and grand old houses, but depicting a monomyth of American childhood is
sort of Bradbury's thing, and as one-dimensional as that depiction
might be, he excels at it. The prose could be a type specimen of the
adjective Bradburyesque, dripping with sensory juices and glints of
brilliance. I was a little disappointed by how little of the fantastic
made its way into these pages, but heck, that's as silly a critique as I
ever put down on this blog.
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