If El Greco had painted miniatures in his prime, no bigger than your hand, infinitely detailed with all his sulphurous color, elongation, and anatomy, perhaps he might have used this man’s body for his art. The colors burned in three dimensions. They were windows looking in upon fiery reality. Here, gathered on one wall, were all the finest scenes in the universe, the man was a walking treasure gallery. This wasn’t the work of a cheap carnival tattoo man with three colors and whiskey on his breath. This was the accomplishment of a living genius, vibrant, clear, and beautiful.
Ray Bradbury, The Illustrated Man
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Ray Bradbury, one of the founding authors and Grand Masters of science fiction, has been dead a little over a year now. Today is his birthday (born in 1920 in Waukegan, Ill.), and I decided to take a look at him, in part by letting you take a look at me interpreting, like a pale ghost, one of his more famous anthologies: The Illustrated Man.
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