oops, I did it again

I don't know why this happens but I killed another writer. I didn't mean to. I really didn't. But it really didn't come as much of a surprise; it had been a while since the last one. You're probably wondering what I'm babbling on about. It's simple, really. I have a rather bad record with authors I like and whose books I devour in large quantities. They die. Usually before they should. Or, more accurately, before I'm done with them. Whenever I expect more books (because I can't get enough), they die. John Updike has joined the likes of Timothy Findley, Robertson Davies, and Robert Ludlum. I read all their books and they die, leaving me wanting more ...

I've been an Updike fan for quite a while now, picking up his older books at used bookstores, always chuckling at his wry sense of humour. To tell the truth, I must look like a total weirdo reading Updike because I am rather audible doing so; a similar response I have to Nelson DeMille, one I've managed to not kill as of yet.

John Updike will be missed, terribly.

There are at least three writers I am rather worried about ... Just checked and Gabriel Gárcia Márquez is 81, John le Carré is 77, and Mario Vargas Llosa is 72. Things don't bode well for them, although I do wish them long and healthy lives, preferably full of writing.

A part of me is weary of finding new, younger favourites ... the question looms over my head: what if I kill them off too? I'd hate to have that on my conscience ...

Quote of the day:
Dreams come true. Without that possibility, nature would not incite us to have them. -- John Updike