This is getting to feel like a conspiracy. Literary cyphers who have never had an original thought and really should not be let loose on our language except on a very short leash live for ever, leaching the sun from the sky with every word they write. Original, insightful, lyrical writers who illuminate our condition and make life worth living die at absurdly young ages, barely into their prime with so many stories to tell. Robert Holdstock, Joel Lane, Jay Lake, Iain Banks and now Graham Joyce.
The lesson – yet again – is carpe that fucking diem. Writers – all artists – create like there is no tomorrow, because there will not be one, eventually. The rest of us, love your heroes now. Let them know now, not when it is too late.
I’ve just remembered JB Ballard and Angela Carter. Oh, I’m getting too old for…
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