The Martian Chronicles, by Ray Bradbury

Second paragraph of third story (“A Summer Night”):

Upon one stage a woman sang.

Gosh. I had forgotten quite how good this is. It's not a novel; it's a sequence of linked short stories, with some internal inconsistencies, about the colonisation of Mars in 1999-2005, and then a coda in 2026 after disaster strikes Earth. Of course, the stories are more about Earth (and specifically Midwestern, mid-century America) than about Mars; but they are beautifully formed parables, and often more than that. You must have read it, because it's essential reading for anyone who cares about science fiction, but if you haven't, you can get it here.

And the end of the last story, “The Million Year Picnic”, never fails to bring a lump to my throat:

They reached the canal. It was long and straight and cool and wet and reflective in the night.
“I’ve always wanted to see a Martian,” said Michael. “Where are they, Dad? You promised.”
“There they are,” said Dad, and he shifted Michael on his shoulder and pointed straight down.
The Martians were there. Timothy began to shiver.
The Martians were there–in the canal–reflected in the water. Timothy and Michael and Robert and Mom and Dad.
The Martians stared back up at them for a long, long silent time from the rippling water....

And let's take a moment (well, two minutes and forty seconds) to appreciate Rachel Bloom's tribute to the writer:
This was the top book in my library that I had previously read but not reviewed online. Next on that pile is High Fidelity, by Nick Hornby.