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Last night, I found out that my favourite author of all time, Diana Wynne Jones, died late on Friday.
I wanted to write her a fan letter, saying how much I loved her books and how comforting they were at uni and now it’s too late.
This makes me very sad. Particularly since, you know, shallow but... she stopped writing for years, and started again a few years ago, and it still felt like a miracle seeing a new book by her. Earwig and the Witch comes out in June; after that, no more.
This is insufferably long, but I really don't care. This is... she was seventy-six and she lived a good life by all accounts, but this is still my creative role-model and the creator of so many things I've loved. This is where I truly understand crying over Kurt Cobain.
Diana Wynne Jones’ novels - and short stories - are absolutely wonderful. There is a distinct voice, in terms of both prose and moral outlook, in every one; every character is vibrant, real, their dialogue perfectly suited to them; there is fun and flavour and interest, and on occasion those stories are absolutely devastating. The scene in The Lives of Christopher Chant where Tacroy confesses upsets me every time I read it. She used archetypes, and subverted them; what shows even more talent is when she didn’t subvert the archetypes and still made you care for the individual characters.
( Teach me to hear mermaids singing, or to keep off envy’s stinging )
Rest in peace, Diana Wynne Jones. I look forward to your very last book.
I wanted to write her a fan letter, saying how much I loved her books and how comforting they were at uni and now it’s too late.
This makes me very sad. Particularly since, you know, shallow but... she stopped writing for years, and started again a few years ago, and it still felt like a miracle seeing a new book by her. Earwig and the Witch comes out in June; after that, no more.
This is insufferably long, but I really don't care. This is... she was seventy-six and she lived a good life by all accounts, but this is still my creative role-model and the creator of so many things I've loved. This is where I truly understand crying over Kurt Cobain.
Diana Wynne Jones’ novels - and short stories - are absolutely wonderful. There is a distinct voice, in terms of both prose and moral outlook, in every one; every character is vibrant, real, their dialogue perfectly suited to them; there is fun and flavour and interest, and on occasion those stories are absolutely devastating. The scene in The Lives of Christopher Chant where Tacroy confesses upsets me every time I read it. She used archetypes, and subverted them; what shows even more talent is when she didn’t subvert the archetypes and still made you care for the individual characters.
( Teach me to hear mermaids singing, or to keep off envy’s stinging )
Rest in peace, Diana Wynne Jones. I look forward to your very last book.
