I remember when Harry Mulisch died, and he was one of the first authors whose death created in me a true and outraged sense that a greater writer had missed out on the Nobel. (And to think, I was alive when Borges was, too!)
-24 June 2017
This post is part of the I Remember series.
Railroad Perfection 
Ah yes. I was only just alive when Sylvia Plath still was, which somehow has much significance for me.
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It’s fascinating how the death of authors can affect us. Mulisch meant a lot to me. Others didn’t. It doesn’t make them worse or better or more significant or anything like that. But being alive when a genius writer exists? That is something.
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