The passing of Ray Bradbury makes me reminisce about my love for REAL Books (actually printed on paper)

It’s been such a long time since I read a Ray Bradbury book. Even my copy of “Zen in the Art of Writing” has suddenly gotten yellowed pages in its almost 20 years with me.
Ray didn’t release the creative genius within me but he did get me through a basketball band trip to Richmond, Virginia in 1993. To be exact, the date I wrote inside is March 26, 1993.

Seeing this date written in there with my name and the city I bought it reminds me of the treasure that books were/are. I don’t get the same feeling of ownership when I download the bytes which form a book on my Nook. There is nothing to inscribe. There is no memory attached to the individual books I read either. It’s just me and my futuristic and all too impersonal machine and no fancy Nook cover hides that fact.

Maybe this is why Bradbury avoided most modern technology – the same technology he foresaw in his writings so many years ago.

It’s something people today are missing out on. I associate my copy of “Tennessee Williams: Collected Stories” (4/10/1993) with sitting up in the football stadium at college reading most evenings away. My worn red cover copy of “The Catcher in the Rye” (2/21/1988) makes me remember a trip my parents and I took up to Louisville, Kentucky for no reason whatsoever one weekend and I read in the car on the way up and back.

I miss those memories and I’ll miss Ray Bradbury.