Bradbury's work was some of the first speculative fiction that I ever read, years before I was mature enough to really appreciate just how humanistic his writing was. Back then, it was "holy crap, ghost people on Mars!" or "holy crap, carnivals are creepy" or "HOLY SHIT, they burned books!" But going back and reading some of his work as an adult brought a better understanding of his dedication to depicting the fervor of young friendships, or the profound melancholy of the alienated adult. It also brought to focus Bradbury's understandable, if somewhat grating, nostalgic tendencies. One story in his 1953 collection Golden Apples of the Sun (or it might be from the 1962 R Is for Rocket collection—I have those two as an omnibus) laments that modern technology, including a dinner that screams to be taken out of the oven lest it burn, would eventually terrorize an increasingly frazzled human population. While I agree with him that certain modern contrivances can be a giant pain in the ass (put the smartphone down and have a conversation with my face, please), I just can't get on board with looking wistfully into the past, which is probably why I have worked at PopSci for as long as I have.