Ray Bradbury, 1920 - 2012
Arkham House, the printer founded by H.P. Lovecraft collaborator August Derleth, got in the habit of issuing small runs of well bound weird fiction. One of their number was "Dark Carnival," a short story collection, and the first book by then unknown Ray Bradbury.
For years, I made a habit of checking all bookstores, Goodwill shelves, and yard sales for a copy. It was a bit of a joke, of course: there were only 3,000 copies printed, and there was no chance one would turn up in a junk bin. But it was an amusing way to pass the time while I bought other books. And I saw Bradbury a few times at conferences and talks and signings, even handed him a letter and received a gracious reply while I was in grad. school at UVA. He hadn't seen a copy in years, he noted.
Then, unfortunately, my mother heard about this habit, and ruined it all for me by contacting Powells, which had a copy in their rare books room. She got it for me as a graduation present when I earned my Ph.D.
Last year, Bradbury came to the University where I now teach and write. He was being honored by the Eaton Collection, the largest public archive of speculative fiction in the world, housed on my campus. I dumped the kids on my tolerant wife and made my way to the ceremony and talk. The man was clearly tired, and I got anxiously into the terribly long line for signings. Just a few people short of my position, they announced that they would have to cut the signing off, as Mr. Bradbury needed to rest.
I grabbed the nearest organizer and told him I *had* to get this book signed. They tried to shrug me off, but I got up to Mr. Bradbury's assistant and explained the situation. He hustled me up to the table.
"Ray? There's something kind of special here you'll want to see."
I held out the book. It seemed to take him a moment before he realized what it was. "I haven't seen one of these in...years."
"I know," I said. "You told me that in a letter once. You forgot to sign this one."
He nodded gravely. He had to fumble at the pen a few times before he got it firmly in hand, but then signed with a flourish familiar from the two other times I'd been to signings. He handed the book back carefully. "This is special," he said. "You take good care of this."
I nodded, unable to speak. As the organizers for the conference helped him to stand, Bradbury's assistant shook my hand. "Thank you for that. I think that really made his day." I carefully rewrapped the now doubly-precious volume in its plastic and paper covers and held them tightly as I made my way out of the auditorium.
On the way out the door, one of the Eaton Collection reps came over and casually asked whether I might be interested in selling it.
I told him to go to hell.
For years, I made a habit of checking all bookstores, Goodwill shelves, and yard sales for a copy. It was a bit of a joke, of course: there were only 3,000 copies printed, and there was no chance one would turn up in a junk bin. But it was an amusing way to pass the time while I bought other books. And I saw Bradbury a few times at conferences and talks and signings, even handed him a letter and received a gracious reply while I was in grad. school at UVA. He hadn't seen a copy in years, he noted.
Then, unfortunately, my mother heard about this habit, and ruined it all for me by contacting Powells, which had a copy in their rare books room. She got it for me as a graduation present when I earned my Ph.D.
Last year, Bradbury came to the University where I now teach and write. He was being honored by the Eaton Collection, the largest public archive of speculative fiction in the world, housed on my campus. I dumped the kids on my tolerant wife and made my way to the ceremony and talk. The man was clearly tired, and I got anxiously into the terribly long line for signings. Just a few people short of my position, they announced that they would have to cut the signing off, as Mr. Bradbury needed to rest.
I grabbed the nearest organizer and told him I *had* to get this book signed. They tried to shrug me off, but I got up to Mr. Bradbury's assistant and explained the situation. He hustled me up to the table.
"Ray? There's something kind of special here you'll want to see."
I held out the book. It seemed to take him a moment before he realized what it was. "I haven't seen one of these in...years."
"I know," I said. "You told me that in a letter once. You forgot to sign this one."
He nodded gravely. He had to fumble at the pen a few times before he got it firmly in hand, but then signed with a flourish familiar from the two other times I'd been to signings. He handed the book back carefully. "This is special," he said. "You take good care of this."
I nodded, unable to speak. As the organizers for the conference helped him to stand, Bradbury's assistant shook my hand. "Thank you for that. I think that really made his day." I carefully rewrapped the now doubly-precious volume in its plastic and paper covers and held them tightly as I made my way out of the auditorium.
On the way out the door, one of the Eaton Collection reps came over and casually asked whether I might be interested in selling it.
I told him to go to hell.
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