Ray Bradbury validated not only humanity, but every molecule in this exploding soup of a universe. It’s a human who said yes to life itself, yes, yes, yes. It’s a Jacques Tati love, a Yoko Ono love, an Alfred Hitchcock kind of love. He loved the whole damn thing, from the most distant burning star to your silly haircut. They can be dark yet they whisper sweet, sweet love. The words are not all happy, but they are all beamed out from a heart hopelessly in love. But the words in his books still caress with love. I heard him speak again a couple of years later, and one time I even got to interview him on the telephone for the LA Weekly-a milestone for me. He had told us about his life, about the many things he loved, his ups and downs, his adventures, about space, writing, movies, war, fear, comedy, love, death, horror, ecstasy he seemed to be relishing the whole thing, and so it was so satisfying for us to see him, of course, loving his pizza. Four hundred peo- ple, including me, waited in line patiently to get something signed and to perhaps exchange a few personal words with the man who had us under his spell: most of us long before that day. He wasn’t going to take it in the back room because he knew we all wanted his autograph. He apologized for having the pie brought in at the end of his speech, but he had given it his all and he was hot and tired and he needed fuel. It didn’t bother anyone that he didn’t o er to share, which would have been silly because of the size of the crowd. I was in my 30s, and we were all watching Ray Bradbury eat his pizza. There were probably four hundred other people there in the room at Chatsworth High School in the San Fernando Valley. The first time I ever saw his face, he was eating a take–out pizza. Now I think of Ray Bradbury the man, and I often think of pizza in a cardboard box. He was validating my creative instincts, but Ray Bradbury had validated me first. My high school English teacher gave me permission to ignore lessons so I could just write.

I can’t even really explain it now, but I read them and they prompted me to start writing down my own words. At that time I probably couldn’t have told you why I liked his books I just did. I was 14 years old, and I was deep into his world. I had no need for the man, because I had his words. In the beginning there was no Ray Bradbury.

All That I Desire by Francis Ray