Not long ago, in a moment of minor personal crisis, I found myself hungering after the literary equivalent of comfort food.
Something familiar, but not too familiar-not familiar to the point of boredom. Yet something that would give me a predictably pleasant lift.
Wandering our basement library (which contains some 3000 of those bulky pre-Kindle
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And I think that pretty much covers Mr. Nightshade & Co...I've never presented my blog essays as anything but my own views, Tony, as you know, and I realize I'm spitting into a hurricane to dare to publicly criticize Bradbury's beloved child characters. But when even someone who defends them admits that "Bradbury doesn't create realistic children," well, that tells me I'm on to something.
That needn't stop anyone from liking anything they like, of course...even those awful paragraphs I quoted in the essay.
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