I started reading Ray Bradbury when I was at school, and have read him ever since. His writing created evocative images that have stayed with me all my life, and inspired and informed my own ideas and writing.
He wrote and wrote and wrote, all kinds of things, short stories, books, screenplays, all good, all intelligent, all with that same sense of something disturbing and unsettling. He had a gift for seeing the world in a different way, and then making us see it too.
He was writing up to the end. He would wake up in the morning, his head still full of dreams from the night before, and write. He always had a story to tell.
For me, whatever he told, however he told it, he did one thing that I thing is vital for a writer.
He made me think.
Whenever I finished one of his stories, I saw, or felt, or looked at the world in a different way.
Judging by the tributes, he inspired a huge range of people, including Steven Spielberg and Barack Obama. Indirectly then, he could be said to have inspired a large part of the creative output of the late 20th and early 21st century.
That’s a hell of a legacy for one writer.