While I knew he had been ailing for years, I never reconciled that knowledge with the natural eventuality of death. For me, he was a living champion of culture, of words, of language and of beauty that can only be captured by his pen.
I haven’t cried yet, but the tears are coming. Finishing 100 Years of Solitude after years of trying and failing to get into it was a soothing balm for my soul. It snapped me into a view of myself I’d never wanted to know, and it encouraged me to start writing again.
The sting of this loss will haunt us all for a while; those of us that were touched by his work and voice.