The novel opens with an unnamed twenty-seven-year old protagonist-a writer very much like the young Ray Bradbury-who irreverently calls himself the Great American Novelist, traveling on a lonely railcar with only one other man on the train. Bradbury never borders on parody or pastiche (a problem I’ve noticed with other writers when attempting to emulate the golden era masters) and instead paves his own path down those shadowed mean streets cluttered with desperate and longing characters. Examples: “books clustered like vultures with their black feathers and dusty golden stares” and “Venice was and is full of lost places where people put up for sale the last worn bits of their souls, hoping no one will buy.” To his credit, Mr. To their noir hardboiled legacy, he writes in his own Bradbury-ian elegance, fusing the well-worn (and, frankly, by then, tired) detective novel with a great deal of his distinct lyrical flair. The book is dedicated to several notables of crime fiction including Raymond Chandler, Dashiell Hammett, and Ross Macdonald. Bradbury took a stab at several noir novels rather late in his career, the first of which was 1985’s Death Is a Lonely Business, his first full-length novel in over a decade. But apart from his legions of dedicated fans, many may not be aware that Mr.
His Fahrenheit 451, The Martian Chronicles, The Illustrated Man, to name a few, are required reading for any serious student of sci-fi/fantasy. Clarke-represented the very best of modern thought-provoking and socially-conscious escapism. I suspect most people think of science fiction and fantasy when they hear the name Ray Bradbury, who-along with Isaac Asimov, Phillip K.
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