With the death of Arthur C. Clarke, the last surviving Grand Master of science fiction from the genre’s Golden Age is Ray Bradbury. I enjoyed a large number of Bradbury’s more poetic, small town and humanistic works. And I think The Martian Chronicles is one of the greatest books of fiction ever written by an American.
But the man barely understands science, which makes me a tad uncomfortable to list him as an SF Grand Master. But what do I know? Nothing, that’s what.
I was also none too impressed when Bradbury got upset that Michael Moore modified the title of a Bradbury classic, Farenheit 451, for his documentary, Farenheit 911. Um… Mr. Bradbury… you yourself stole Something Wicked This Way Comes from Shakespeare!
Out of curiosity, Canada’s top science fiction writer, Robert Sawyer, charges under $5000 per appearance. So everything in Canada is cheaper.
Me? I speak for food. Or adoration. Or just because I lead a sad, lonely life and standing before a podium gives me the illusion of having friends!
Apropos of nothing, I leave you with this: