This story is deeply, deeply disturbing to me because it could so easily be a vision of my distant future! Betrayed by his own mounds of books! It's really a shame. I hope he rests happily in bibliophile heaven!
The vagaries of literary obscurity are discussed here. To be forgotten is one of my greatest fears. Some cultures believed that it wasn't until you were no longer remembered that you actually died. That's the only thing about not having children that saddens/frightens me: there will be no one to remember me when I die.
A very nice rememberance of Iris Chang, the author of The Rape of Nanking. I still haven't gotten around to reading her work, but I always avidly watched any and all television appearances she made. She was a very interesting speaker. I remember last year thinking, "Wonder what Iris Chang is working on?" Not too long later, I heard that she had committed suicide. Very tragic.
(Via Bookslut, Bookninja, and Maud Newton)
I promise a more upbeat post later. Sorry if I depressed anyone!
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