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“For it is a mad world,” he wrote, “and it will get madder if we allow the minorities, be they dwarf or giant, orangutan or dolphin, nuclear-heard or water-conservationist, pro-computerologist or Neo-Luddite, simpleton or sage, to interfere with aesthetics.”
Every book, Fahrenheit 451 showed, represents a person, and for Bradbury it was all very personal.
“If Mormons do not like my plays let them write their own. If the Irish hate my Dublin stories, let them rent typewriters. . . If the Chicano intellectuals wish to re-cut my ‘Wonderful Ice Cream Suit’ so it shapes ‘Zoot,’ may the belt unravel and the pants fall.” He wasn’t done yet.
“All you umpires, back to the bleachers. Referees, hit the showers. It’s my game. I pitch, I hit, I catch. I run the bases. At sunset I’ve won or lost. At sunrise, I’m out again, giving it the old try.”
Ray Bradbury tried and succeeded, productive until the end. He has now departed and the world, as he warned in 1979, is a much madder place. More reason to re-read Fahrenheit 451, including the afterword, and oppose political correctness with the courage of the master himself.
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