All my favorite authors are, one by one, shuffling off this mortal coil.
Shel Silverstein, Roald Dahl, Dr. Suess, Issac Asimov, Douglas Adams, Kurt Vonnegut… the list goes on and on…
and now, Arthur C. Clarke.
“I want to be remembered most as a writer.
If I have given you delight,
by aught that I have done,
let me lie quiet in that night,
which shall be yours anon:
And for the little, little, span
The dead are born in mind,
Seek not to question other than
The books I leave behind.”
-Arthur C. Clarke’s farewell message, recorded last year.
A great enlightened man, not just writing about the future, but helping to create it.
Ray Bradbury’s still alive, at 87… Ursula K Leguin is still knocking about at 78… but most of the other authors I grew up with seem to be dropping like flies of late.
On the plus side, the simple fact that they are authors means that a chunk of their wit and imagination will last forever, trapped in the amber of books.