I am deeply saddened by the passing of Farley Mowat.
When an author you admired and enjoy dies, it feels like the passing of a close friend. A friend you met at a book store or through someone else’s literary choice. Someone you invited into your home, carried in by your hand in the form of a book. The two of you would stay up late together, while the author regaled you with stories by the fireside page by page. From time to time he would indulge you with a new story, and you would invite him back for another visit. Perhaps over a glass of wine, or a coffee, you would share the experiences that this person placed on paper for you to enjoy.
The author is a friend who does not judge you, you can ignore them, leave them on a shelf for years, and when you once again reintroduce yourself, by pulling out that old book, the same person who delighted you so many years ago presents you with the same magic they gave you so many years ago.
My authors are my friends, Mr. Mowat among one of my first. I would have been 10 or 11 when I met him in the pages of Never Cry Wolf , and while the man has passed, my friend is still here with me, sitting on a shelf. I will mourn his passing this day, but this evening I will invite him over to the table and once again share a few hours with someone who has helped shaped my life.
“Somewhere to the eastward a wolf howled; lightly, questioningly. I knew the voice, for I had heard it many times before. It was George, sounding the wasteland for an echo from the missing members of his family. But for me it was a voice which spoke of the lost world which once was ours before we chose the alien role; a world which I had glimpsed and almost entered…only to be excluded, at the end, by my own self.”
― Farley Mowat, Never Cry Wolf (May 12, 1921 – May 7, 2014)