The lost Martian civilisation is gone from us forever, its last traces vanished, the mind that envisioned it extinguished. Only words on a page remain to hint at the glories and wonders of that world.
I'm compelled to add, I really want to rant and spit and scream and swear. He was unique, his voice like no other. Not just The Martian Chronicles, but Dandelion Wine, Something Wicked This Way Comes... I could go on and on. This feels a lot like the day I heard Heinlein was dead. There is something about knowing you will never have the chance to discover another new book by an author you love that is tragic and overwhelming, at least to me.
Bradbury was one of my favorite short story authors. I've spent the last few days considering how influential he was in the genre.
Maybe this isn't a time to rejoice in the fact we still have his voice in so many wonderful works. He might have been a bricklayer instead. He might have worked for the post office and dreamed stories he never wrote. Celebrate that he achieved his dream and still shares it with us.