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.
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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.
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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.

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