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Yesterday my favorite author died, aged 66. I am neither family or friend, and yet I cried. The idea that I will never again pick up a new, pristine and unread book by him, quite frankly, sucks. Opening up the newest addition to my bookshelf was like a second Christmas, and at his most prolific it came around just about every year.
His imagination was tremendous, only overshadowed by the funny things he could do with English. I suspect he must have loved words a great deal, and possibly they loved him back. My copied of his books have cracked and loose spines, with nicks, bumps and yellowing pages. I do not forget the stories, but the delight I take in reading his English never fades.
His world could cheer me up when nothing else would, and for that I loved him. Reading his books made me want to write too, and for his skills I admired him.
Just because something is funny, doesn't mean it's not serious. Just because it's unreal, doesn't mean it's not true.
I will miss him.
Noli Timere Messorem
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