Gods no, we are soon to lose the brilliant Iain Banks. I just read he is terminally ill. This wonderful author has a shelf all of his own in my wee house. Ever since I read the Wasp Factory in 1986 I tried to buy all his books (SF, novel and non-fiction), complaining the man just wrote too much to keep up with. But I did. Except for The Algebraist, I read them all, too. And begged autographs of him when I could. And two of his books rescued me from my worst holiday ever. It was like meeting an old friend: seeing his books in an Italian bookstore (in English!) and in Londen, before I boarded the Eurostar, swearing and cursing. Bought both*.
Don’t know what to do now. Say thank you I suppose. And have a wee dram to celebrate his life and works.
*books. Not Eurostar and/or bookstore.