Lyrical dark fantasy. We could call it horror--certainly there is plenty to be horrified about, and Mr. Dark's carnival tempts us in defeating our own mortality--but Bradbury has here, as often, offered us a parable, a fable about ourselves, hammer-heavy in its symbols and set-ups but forgivable for its heavily leaning on Nostalgia Americana.

Pre-teens Jim and Will (two halves of each of us, Superego and id, Apollonian and Dionysian, prudence and impudence) find themselves targeted by a dark carnival master who has already worked to ensnare others in small town American, those whose dreams reveal only their vulnerabilities and fears. Will's father, himself recognizing the danger (and literary truth) of their situation, works to defeat them and win back his son(s). 

Along the way, though, Bradbury does what is uniquely Bradbury: wax poetically about the smoke in autumn, the leaves on sidewalks, the whistle of a train like the cries of war camp victims. It is for these images, these frequent sponges of image, that this is a must read. The story is fine; its writing is magnificent. 

Not one of his most popular books, Bradbury frequently called it his favorite, and I understand why. Here he has zoomed in on the most potent anxieties we all carry: of parenthood, lost youth, the desire for experience, and the absurdity under all of it.