I just learned from Making Light that Thomas M. Disch, the author of 334 and On Wings of Song -- two of the best works of SF I've ever read -- killed himself two days ago. Damn. Fucking damn it. Yes, he was a bastard sometimes, particularly lately, but he wrote some amazing stuff that spoke of a larger spirit and artistic sensibility than most people ever know. I wish he had had a better life.

ETA: NY Times Obituary

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