There Will Come Soft Rains (1950) [pdf]

"Ray Bradbury has preferred (unknowingly, perhaps, and by secret inspiration of his genius) an elegiac tone. Martians, who at the beginning of the book are horrible, deserve his pity when annihilation reaches them. Men vanquish and the author is not proud of their victory. He announces with sadness and disappointment the future expansion of mankind over the red planet - that his prophecy reveals as a desert of vague blue sand, with ruins of chess-like cities and yellow sunsets and ancient ships to wander on the sand.

Other authors stamp a coming date and we don't believe them, because we know it is a literary convention; Bradbury writes 2004 and we feel the gravitation, the fatigue, the vast and vague accumulation of the past - the 'dark backward and abysm of Time' from the Shakespeare verse. Already the Renaissance had noted, by mouth of Giordano Bruno and of Bacon, that the real Ancient Ones are us, and not the men from Genesis or Homer.

What has this man from Illinois done, I ask myself when closing the pages of his book, that episodes from the conquest of another planet fill me with horror and loneliness?

How can these fantasies touch me, and in such an intimate way? All literature (I dare reply) is symbolic; there are a few fundamental experiences and it is indifferent that a writer, to transmit them, recurs to the fantastic or the real, to Macbeth or to Rascolnikov, to the Belgium invasion in August 1914 or to an invasion of Mars. Who cares about the novel, or novelry of science fiction? In this book of ghostly appearance, Bradbury has placed his long empty Sundays, his American tedium, his loneliness, like Sinclair Lewis did on Main Street."

Clarke wrote good stories. Asimov had some good ideas but was a fairly poor writer of fiction (his characters and dialog, in particular, are rarely better than terrible, and many of his stories hinge on a single gee-what-if shower thought and have little more going for them) and is in my estimation easily the weakest of the three.

Bradbury… is good good. He had a combo of talent and a mind to put it to a certain kind of use, some (or many) elements of which the other two did not possess. I would unhesitatingly recommend Bradbury to a literary fiction reader who’s not much on genre fiction for its own sake, and might not even bother to suggest where they start. I would selectively recommend bits of Clarke’s work where he’s treading a bit closer to the sublime than usual, or some of his short stories that are at least competent, fun short reads with some ideas or imagery or the odd line that sticks with you. I might not recommend any Asimov at all.

Some authors are good, no italics. Bradbury is good.

God, thank you for this. Everyone seems to love that book and I found it hopelessly confusing and pointless.