I was down enough already today, feeling the stress of isolation severely again, getting wet on a failed expedition to collect an undelivered parcel, not looking forward to another day of no conversations and silence at work, and I did not need to hear that Carlos Ruiz Zafon has died at the age of 55. Bloody, bloody, bloody, bloody, bloody cancer again.
I’m in the middle of a re-read of the Cemetery of Forgotten Books quartet again, a few pages or paragraphs at a time, slowly, over several weeks so far. In fact, last night I completed The Angel’s Game and began The Prisoner of HeaveN and now this news. The rest of this read-through will not be the same now.
And there’ll be nothing more. This world is exacting too much of a toll.