I don't have a problem with people crying.

They weep, somewhat more understandably, when Victorian detectives with inoperable cancer sacrifice themselves to giant spiders, when they are drunk and reading fine English literature, when ad executives contemplate their mortality, when the family dog dies, and when they choose not to dig up someone who has mistakenly been buried alive. They cry because their Nightmare Periscope Kaleidoscope is famous, then again because they decide it's time to smash it, because the birds are singing, because they've just invented the bicycle, because they decided to be jitterbug champions again after a lapse of 20 years, because they're revisiting a library from their childhood, because they realize they love their wife again, because teenage ghost apparitions are given by their middle aged unborn sons the addresses of future husbands, or they have a saccharine emotional exchange with the ghosts of Stan and Ollie, or because they're 39 and they have decided where they are going to take their time machine and again when they test it and it works. In nearly every story without exaggeration, characters cry at one point or another out of a sense of heartwarming verklemptness and I have to remind myself not to throw up in my mouth. Applying an academic grading system to each, my average was a generous overall D. Upon 2nd reading, I find 1 of 21 stories great, 1 good, 6 ok, 5 not good, 4 bad, 3 insufferable and 1 'f****** insufferable'. I changed my rating from 4 stars (2008- I was 22) to 2 (2019- I am 33).

I love me some Bradbury but I find that my tolerance for hollow sentiment is diminishing rapidly with age.

Quicker Than the Eye by Ray Bradbury