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.