Ray Bradbury was the King of Colour. His colours are clear, bright and comes onto you like you are being on a paintball field and everyone is gunning for you. And there is darkness and there is a black that somehow is iridiscent and colourful in itself. Noone else writes that black colour. Now he is dead. But his colours are still there, as vivid as always.
I checked, it is true.
Some authors’ works elicit more colour than others. Badly written books tend not to be colourful at all. On the other hand, a great book does not have to be colourful and the manner and quantity of colour does not correspond to the quality of the writing. I do tend to be drawn to authors that write colourfully, though. It lends another dimension to reading, a dimension that I enjoy.
There are some authors that write bleakly but I still love them. Susannah Clarke is an author whose colours are very bleak. There are colours, they are simply not saturated (which in her writing is beautiful). Neil Gaiman is a colourful writer. The colours are plenty saturated and often strong and shiny, but there is always shadows lending shades and hues making reading him all the more enjoyable. Diana Wynne Jones was a very colourful, bright writer. When fading, her colours went not toward shadows but toward whitish fog and smog. When she passed away I tried painting something in her honor and planned making a post on the blog since I have admired her works since I was about nine years old, but I never managed to produce something adequate. There are plenty other colourwriters, I might write more about them later.