The image-generating, theater-of-the-mind chunk of my brain is unpracticed. I don’t have aphantasia; I’m not debilitated. But if you ask me to picture an apple it has fuzzy edges. If I close my eyes, it takes effort to visualize anything. As a result, I often read books without fully imagining the visual descriptions.
To some, this will seem like sacrilege, but I think it’s a gift.
Because of this, I’ve always gravitated toward prose that is atmospheric and razor-sharp. I don’t need a comprehensive description of a character’s physical features—give me one detail that is poignant or predictive. If a building is ramshackle, describe the peeling plaster and leave it there. If your protagonist is snatching a fallen enemy’s dagger off the ground mid-combat, describe the way the leather grip is molded to a foreign hand. I love when a writer can use sparse detail to suggest a greater narrative.
This instinct in my writing and reading habits didn’t arise merely from my own convictions. I was trained; it took me a long time to realize by whom.
I usually say I have three favorite authors. I like Brandon Sanderson for his plots, Tana French for her characters, and Ray Bradbury for his prose.
This piece is dedicated to Bradbury.
His command of the written word is unmatched. Let’s take, for example, “The Pedestrian”; the short story that would inspire “Fahrenheit 451”—the novel that caused the name ‘Bradbury’ to be uttered in the same breath as ‘Orwell’ and ‘Huxley’ in countless high school classrooms.
On page one of “The Pedestrian,” we find out that our protagonist Mr. Leonard Mead is walking through the silent city at night with his hands in his pockets. On page two, he whispers to the houses as he passes by and checks his watch. On page three, we learn he is a writer who hasn’t written in years, who doesn’t have a TV, who is not married because nobody wanted him.
That’s about it. The story is brief. But, despite the lack of physical description, I can see Mr. Leonard Mead. I know and understand him. His eye color doesn’t matter. He might be tall or short. It doesn’t matter.
The story also captures an atmosphere: the necrotic near-dark of a city stalked by one robotic police car.
In the first paragraph, Bradbury describes the decaying sidewalk, which becomes a motif representing the utopian society’s apathy. Mr. Leonard is a relic within a world that has moved on from presence. His behavior—thoughtful pedestrianism—is baffling and outdated to the world he inhabits.
I have perhaps strayed too deeply into analysis for a love letter, but that’s because of my admiration for Bradbury’s storytelling. I would be a different writer if I never read him; perhaps I would not be a writer at all. If I’m losing my way, reading a Bradbury piece grounds me.
There’s a reason why the stories that command cultural authority are about human connection and experience. “Interstellar” is about a father and daughter. “Ender’s Game” is about a boy growing up. “The Pedestrian” and “Fahrenheit 451” are about upholding a way of life that has become counter-cultural. Excellent stories—even in a genre like speculative fiction—have heart, and Bradbury’s influence helped me understand this.