One of my four current favorite authors, in whose books I've dwelt in for hours and days on end, passed.
I was following his blog and saw he was ill. The C word. Plus early pre-vax Covid. I waited for new books. Like e selfish child who expects papa to play on his deathbed.
I guess you can't write much when you are sick.
Then I got ill and busy with other series. Like a friend you lose track of (Forget) while making new.
Then I found the last book I'd been too cheap to buy, at the library. And I checked his blog and he was dead.
He was funny. He cared about pandemics and comics and London. and people who suffered in pandemics. Kept us posted on Covid in London.
I feel that somehow, his detectives Bryant & May (not the matches which I guess were a brand in England) should honor their creators passing.
Like Holmes and Poirot, Alleyn.and Wimsey, Arthur Bryant and John May must have a life beyond their writers.
I wish I could have sent a tribute to the funeral. Or told his husband I was sorry. And thank you for it all.
For the underground rivers and Carnaby Street and Mr. Punch and old St Pancras and the Peculiar Crimes Unit, which should have existed, thanks.
Someday I will get to London. And most of the quirky bits, and much of the important will have come from Bryant and May and Meera and Janice and Raymond and Crippen and Fowler.
Eternal rest, Christopher Fowler (1953-2023, in the 69 club with Bowie and Rickman and Petty)
Posts
