I was at the library this afternoon, returning books and saying goodbye to my librarian. And I happened to notice that there was a crate of books next to her desk, and that the top one was The First Two Lives of Lukas-Kasha, and that it had one of those This Book Has Been Removed From The FLP stickers on its spine, meaning that it was en route to be sold for a quarter from the cart next to the circ desk. She noticed that I was eying it, and encouraged me to pick through the crate. To make a long story short, I acquired eight Alexanders and one Aiken, plus a Colfer from the cart downstairs. Apparently it's weeding time in the A's (although I was reassured that there are newer copies of everything; either on-shelf or on-order). And she wouldn't let me pay for any of them on the grounds that I'm a college student and therefore poor. That's all of $2.25, but I appreciate it.

And I was restrained. Considering the free space on my bookshelf, I did not bring home the nice old hardcovers of The Prydain Chronicles (No, I will NOT collect multiple editions of Prydain. My bookshelf isn't that big, and multiple editions of Tamora Pierce's stuff is bad enough. Even if my habitual book-browsing-and-rescuing means that I already have a good start on multiple paperback imprints of Prydain.) I did get some Vesper Holly, although I still don't have The Jedera Adventure. Ah well.

Books, books, books!

Lloyd Alexander is dead.

He was an author whose work I've loved for years. He was a Philadelphian. He lived in Drexel Hill. I always intended to write him a letter and tell him how much I enjoyed his books. I even found his address when I was in 5th grade (and promptly lost it again, but I would have been able to find it, if I'd bothered to look properly).

He was old - born in 1924 - and I knew that he wouldn't be alive forever, and that I ought to get my act together and write the letter. This particularly struck me a year or two ago when Colman came out, and in reading the notes, I discovered not only that it was published posthumously, but that Monica Furlong, the author, had been a really cool person. It struck me really forcefully at the time - authors don't live forever, and some of the ones you're fond of are getting rather old. I think that's when I really decided to write him a letter. Before, it had been something that it would be nice to do, and after, it was something that I intended to do, and soon.
But I was a highschooler, and very busy, and it slipped my mind.

Last February I was lying in bed, waiting to go to sleep, and the thought occurred to me again: If I want to write Lloyd Alexander a letter, I need to do it. I decided to write the letter the next morning. And then the next morning I woke up feeling absolutely rotten - I think I'd caught that nasty bug that had been going around. And I decided to put off writing the letter, because no 80-something-year-old-man, author or not, was going to appreciate getting a germ-bomb that was easily taking out dozens of young healthy college kids. So I didn't write it. And by the time I was done feeling like something the cat dragged in, I had forgotten again.

And now he's dead. He died yesterday. sdn posted it on her lj, and the rest of the web confirms.

I always doubted that he heard much from his fans; he didn't seem to be hugely well known, even here in Philadelphia, and he seem to go to cons or do booksignings - in fact, he didn't even have a website.
But we, the fans, exist all the same.
And we are sorry.