This is the third installment of my aptly-named series “Books on the Shelf,” in which I take any title or object from one of my lovingly alphabetized shelves and write a short post about it.
(Yeah, I know, the mass markets throw off the alphabetizing scheme. I was running out of room so I stacked them. Trust me, it hurts me more than it hurts you.)
I read Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451 in high school, I think. Then, a few years ago, I reviewed a local production of Bradbury’s stage adaptation of his own novel. Bradbury was a pretty decent novelist, but not so amazing of a playwright. Sucker-punch: it was staged in December 2016, when everything was, well, that particular flavor of insane.
But you know what? Read the comments section on that review I linked to. No really, do. I’d seen a journalistic think-piece not long before saying that when a journalist actually engages politely with a somewhat angry commenter (I’m not talking about misogynistic trolls or that sort of thing), it can have good results. So I tried it this time, and guess what: it worked! Dude was pretty grumpy at the outset, but we wound up in a mutually respectful, interesting conversation.
That’s the very tiny glimmer of hope I have to offer today. Please accept and nurture as needed.