Many authors bring many different styles, and I have
reviewed a large portion of my favourite authors on this blog: Neil Gaiman can
write circles around the reader with a very “that’s exactly how I feel!” sense that comes to mind when he is read;
Frank Herbert has a quality of delivering incredibly well thought out, unique
plot-twisted and intense epics; Stephen King can wrap popular culture around a
jagged, rusty blade of a storyline and stab it violently towards your eyes;
Orson Scott Card will generally find the qualities of life you enjoy and use
them as leverage to tear down a main character until he is the exact opposite
of everything he is allegedly standing for; but Ray Bradbury remains
un-trivialised on my blog. Let us change that, shall we?
He is, to me, what happens when incredible writing meets the
everyday observation and is sprinkled in with a very modest, un-voluminous yet
extremely powerful darkside. He does not dance around in his own cleverness the
way Neil Gaiman does, yet they are very similar to me. He also does not bathe
the heroes/heroines in despair quite the way Herbert or Orson Scott Card would,
but I can see the relations and inspirations between them all.
Dandelion Wine
represents to me a complete novel that fulfills all that I felt The Martian Chronicles lacked.
Understand they are completely different books with nearly nothing in common.
But both are novels compiled of essentially independent short stories tied to a
central location/setting. I loved The
Martian Chronicles, loved how it painted humans and our relationship with a
new culture that is more of a state of consciousness than a simple second
sentient race. But it lacked ringers. Stories that made you put the book down
and take a few paces around the room, taking time out to appreciate the
experience.
Dandelion Wine
does not lack these moments. I do not feel I need to get specific, both for the
sake of not spoiling anything for readers of the blog who have not yet read the
book as well as for those of you who may have felt the way I did only with
different chapters, but this book had individual stories of supreme brilliance.
Whether it was a simple description of the atmosphere one
feels when in the prime of summer; the dread of seeing summer’s end; the thrill
of scaring one’s self; the fear/acceptance of death and
celebration/acknowledgement of life; everything seemed to be so clever and
extremely relatable in the analogies and descriptions. In the end, I felt I
lived through that Midwestern US summer of 1928 with Douglas and Tom in
Illinois.
Whereas authors like Gaiman can be polarizing with their
cuteness and subsequent filth in times of comic relief setting the stage for a
quick, dark surprise, I felt like Bradbury simplified things in this book.
Which serves well as much of the story revolves around two young boys, one a
teenager and his brother a ten-year-old. Together they fantasize about the
endless possibilities of new shoes. They philosophise and write down everything
they learn and categorise human behavior as something “traditional” or “new”,
something I found highly advanced for kids but was jealous of their cleverness;
not because I could never think of that
but because, in my experience, brothers tend to have a mutual let’s see what the riskiest thing we can
do/dumbest lie we can tell/most dangerous behavior complex. Not always, but two young males
usually push each other in much the same way as Douglas and Tom, only in a direction
that is less productive. So that was cool.
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