One night each week he was allowed to leave his father, his mother, and his younger brother Tom asleep in their small house next door and run here, up the dark spiral stairs to his grandparents’ cupola, and in this sorcerer’s tower sleep with thunders and visions, to wake befor the crystal jingle of milk bottles and perform his ritual magic.
What you have here in this book then is a gathering of dandelions from all those years. The wine metaphor which appears again and again in these pages is wonderfully apt. I was gathering images all of my life, storing them away, and forgetting them. Somehow I had to send myself back, with words as catalysts to open the memories out and see what they had to offer.
Ray Bradbury, Just This Side of Byzantium — An Introduction, Dandelion Wine
Summer doesn’t officially arrive for a while, but after an hour out in the Texas sun on my quarantine walk, you can start to feel the sweat pooling around your neck and dripping down your scalp. I saw somebody on Twitter recommending this as a good time to start reading (or re-reading) Ray Bradbury’s Dandelion Wine. Why not?
My love, she weeps at many things,
I would not for the world stop up her tears;
She came in many years of drought
And taught me just how right was private rain
To touch the dust with smallest storm
With emerald droppings from her eyes.