I confess... the very first book I ever purchased for myself was a Ray Bradbury collection titled Golden Apples of the Sun. It was an Avon paperback, and it cost me 75 cents. From then on, there was no turning back.
Except for the early Mars stuff, which was beneath him, Bradury with his ordinary midwestern evenings, after supper, with crickets chirping, that suddenly turned weird, oh Lord. That is the stuff of dreams, or nightmares. Bradbury is truly a class by himself, and has no equal.
I mean that literally, no pun intended. There is no genre that Ray Bradbury fits in. There's nothing "Bradburyan." He had a mind so unique that no one can imposturate it. It's impossible to be inspired by Bradbury to write "Bradburyan" fiction. There are few writers that can't be impersonated, because everything he writes is so unique, but so uniquely him. Ray Bradbury is one.