Author Information
@ 27.225 MHz: Toward WallStones; Sarban At Home, February 28th, 1981
The news just came to me, with an enormous shock:
our genre's best, Robert Fordyce Aickman, is dead.
I cannot get the stark, sad fact quite through my head
(I say, this is another kind of writers' block).
Of those who write such tales for us, he was so great.
This shaken, shallow world cannot appreciate
the subtle meanings of the spiritual allegories
that he described in forty-seven (too few) stories.
Late breakfasters will still wake to entirely prize
his pages, without slightest thought of compromise.
Even a young girl's journal might boldly declare
the intense artistry his published writings bear.
Some poet ought to write an elegy to sing
him---finer than our genre's so-called crownless king.
Starward
[jlc]
