Today I came across this passage from the introduction of Bradbury Stories: 100 of Bradbury’s Most Celebrated Tales:
I was so busy rushing headlong into the future, loving libraries and books and authors with all my heart and soul, was so consumed with becoming myself that I simply didn’t notice that I was short, homely, and untalented. Perhaps, in some corner of my mind, I did know. But I persisted – the need to write, to create, coursed like blood through my body, and still does.
I always dreamed of someday going into a library and looking up and seeing a book of mine leaning against the shoulder of L.Frank Baum or Edgar Rice Burroughs, and down below my other heroes, Edgar Allan Poe, H.G. Wells, and Jules Verne. My wild love for them and their worlds, and for others like Somerset Maugham and John Steinbeck kept me so invigorated with passion that I could not see that I was the Hunchback of Notre Dame in their grand company.
Oh Mr Bradbury, I am not as famous as you yet, but I have similar dream.