Ray Bradbury always seemed kind of bland to me; seemed like he was of the pulp fiction era and cranked out the content to pay the bills...

Now Aldous Huxley on the other hand wrote because the genius inside his head is what they world was thirsting to hear

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I know what you mean, and his other books didn’t vibe with me at all. This one is different.

May still not be your cup of tea. May not even be mine anymore, but, like Hermann Hesse’s Demian, to a teenage boy it was spot on.