In the late 1960s my friend J. G. Ballard phoned me full of outrage. Feeling weighed down by the bad prose cluttering his study, he had dug a pit in his back garden and thrown his review copies in, splashing them with a little petrol. But they proved harder to burn than he thought, so he put one in the kitchen oven, which had a suitable thermometer, to test the igniting heat of book paper. “Bradbury was wrong!” he complained. “Fahrenheit 451 isn’t the temperature at which book paper burns!” But, I asked, hadn’t Bradbury phoned the Los Angeles Fire Department to get the temperature right?
“Well, they’re wrong, too!” announced Ballard, who admired Bradbury and whose own early Vermilion Sands stories echo Bradbury’s The Martian Chronicles. Ray Bradbury, he said, had shown him that science ﬁction was worth writing.
Ironically, Bradbury, like Ballard, was primarily a fantast. He wrote
very little science ﬁction, even as he became a measure of how good the
genre could be. He said so in a 1999 interview with the Weekly Wire: “I don’t write science ﬁction. I’ve only done one science ﬁction book and that’s Fahrenheit 451.”
Ballard had come across Bradbury in Galaxy magazine where
“The Fireman,” the original version of this book, appeared. By then
Bradbury was beginning his mature career. As a boy, unable to ﬁnd more
books by my favorite fantast Edgar Rice Burroughs, I discovered
Bradbury’s early ﬁction in second-hand copies of Planet Stories and Weird Tales, whosenstories were full of Gothic riﬀs and echoes of Edgar Allan Poe. ... [mehr] https://lithub.com/the-truth-of-ray-bradburys-prophetic-vision/