if you grew up in the nineties

Summer holidays bring on the nostalgia. Endless days of light and warmth, gangs of friends, sunburnt mornings at the beach, afternoon rides through shady streets, nights spent lying in fresh grass, counting the stars. These were the months of freedom and youth and invincibility, long before we understood how precious and rare and fleeting these privileges would be.

Along with the many books I devoured while swinging in hammocks, bookmarked with sand and dripped on by ice cream and mango, movies held a particular magic for me in those days. Narrative was still untainted by the poser’s need to be subversive. Adventures were pure and real and simple. Before the ubiquity of computer animation, never-ending franchises and much-hyped adaptations, movies were singular, fleeting and sublime. These are the stories that shaped my wonder, and still hold magic for me, even now.

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a rare month

“But no man’s a hero to himself.”

Nostalgia has never been rendered with such bittersweet whimsy as in Something Wicked This Way Comes, the only full-length novel written by speculative master, Ray Bradbury. The adjective-laden prose, nuanced with strokes of scent and shade and breeze, is beautiful in a uniquely poetic way. Even Stephen King, with his notorious hatred of adverbs, was an ardent fan of Bradbury’s genius, admiring his stories for their “resonance and strange beauty”.

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