I heard  about Arthur C. Clarke's death last night, and I'd like to blog about my experiences of reading his work; but, thinking back, I realise I've only read one of his books (2001, which I read in the year 2001), and I can't actually remember much about the experience of reading it. So I've put on the most apposite song I can find in my CD collection (see below), and instead I'll blog about my thoughts on hearing the news.

Of course, it's sad. Even though I never met the man, nor particularly followed his work (nor, indeed, read much of it), I still feel a certain sense of loss. The world of science fiction has changed immensely since Sir Arthur began writing, so much so that I often find it hard to appreciate the 'classics' of SF, because I can't put myself in the same 'mindset' with which they'd have been appreciated when they were published. And, when one of the original SF authors dies -- like Clarke now, or Jack Williamson a few years ago, for example -- the beginnings of science fiction become even more distant.

Terry Pratchett was interviewed on the news last night about Sir Arthur's death, and he commented how seeing Clarke at a convention had brought home to him that SF authors are people too. That may sound a strange thing to say, but I know exactly what he means: even though I don't actually go to that many, one of the things I like most about conventions is that authors stop being names on books and start being people with faces and voices. Maybe the world of SF hasn't changed much in some ways, after all.