Diana Wynne Jones
As most of you already know—the news went viral with incredible speed—Diana died this morning. Quietly, at home.
. . . I keep sticking at this point. I know I want to tell you about Diana—about my Diana. I’ve known her since we were both Greenwillow authors in the early 80s. Although our friendship has had long hiatuses due to illness and evil technology—her computer karma makes me look like a Silicon Valley geek—and my self-sabotaging default position that my friends have better things to do than talk to me, she’s been one of my favourite people for thirty years.
I also know I don’t want to talk about her today. Probably not tomorrow either.
Everyone leaves a themselves-shaped hole when they go, and we all feel it, whether we know or recognise the individual holes or not. No one is an island, as John Donne almost said, each human death diminishes me. But Diana was a bigger piece of the promontory than most. This is not the same world without her in it.
And I’m sure you’ll forgive me if I stop there.
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