A bird flew into a tree.


Ray Bradbury’s prose






Ray Zen-in-the-Art-of-Writing Bradbury knows how to write (I say this for admirers of his art, puzzledly). The knack or, if you prefer, the secret is the puzzling rhythms he propounds, which are really jazzy things, or a pendulum swinging—


“He came into Green River, Iowa, on a really fine late spring morning, driving swiftly. His convertible Cadillac was hot in the direct sun outside the town, but then the green overhanging forests, the abundances of soft shade and whispering coolness slowed his car as he moved toward the town.


Thirty miles an hour, he thought, is fast enough.


Leaving Los Angeles, he had rocketed his car across burning country, between stone canyons and meteor rocks, places where you had to go fast because everything seemed fast and hard and clean.


But here, the very greenness of the air made a river through which no car could rush.”


“One Night in Your Life”





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