Arthur C. Clarke has died. He was 90 years old.
He was fantastic.
His short story “The Star” has haunted me since I was a young child; he didn’t merely have talent: he was an artist. An artist, painting universes on paper canvases for the literate world to see.
An author or artist or musician is never really completely gone, of course. He/she will have left many legacies behind, in print or on canvas or in marble or coming from pipes, concealed in an ornate wall, of a gigantic organ. We refer to books and paintings and statues and music in various other aspects of our lives; being intelligent is all about making connections, you know. NOTHING lives within the four walls of a classroom and nowhere else, whatever your opinion of algebra and grammar may be.
Arthur C. Clarke is gone. His DNA will soon be shot into space.
We are lessened.
Mamacita, Scheiss Weekly
