Nobody writes kids quite like Ray Bradbury.
That sense of childlike wonder, and terror, and love: he taps into it, with language that does justice to the "poetic" tag we so often eagerly slap on writing that moves, is lyrical, entrances, or some combination of the three. Which are traits of great writing, don't get me wrong. But poetic? Not necessarily.
Bradbury is poetic. He hammers away on a special nerve that snakes its way back to childhood; and so even when I am rereading a story or book of his for a second, third or fourth time (and so on), I find myself experiencing the same sensations of magic and wonder that stole over me in the initial reading.
Ah, I guess a long prelude to a snippet I wanted to share. From Something Wicked This Way Comes, about two boys, and the daily give-and-take in their way with each other:
"God, how we get our fingers in each other's clay. That's friendship, each playing the potter to see what shapes we can make of the other."
Right on, right on.