It always makes me feel a sharp sense of loss when a favorite writer dies. I'm sad for their family and friends, of course, but also so sad for all the books that they will never be able to write. I wonder what happens to those books. Do they drift out into the collective unconscious, where other writers, inspired by or with an affinity for that writer's work, somehow gather them up and make them their own?
“In whatever guise — our own daily nightmares of war, intolerance, inhumanity; or the struggles of an Assistant Pig-Keeper against the Lord of Death — the problems are agonizingly familiar,” he said in his Newbery acceptance speech in 1969. “And an openness to compassion, love and mercy is as essential to us here and now as it is to any inhabitant of an imaginary kingdom.”