I just learned that Robert B. Parker — yet another of my favorite novelists — died yesterday.
I picked up a paperback copy of Chance back in the mid- to late-90s, and from then on I was hooked by Parker. Loved it. Loved his street-smart tough smartass detective Spenser. Loved his attitude in interviews. Loved his writing style. Yes, he lapsed into self-parody at times. What writer hasn’t? Yes, some of his stuff is stronger than others. But goddamn it. Another one of the great ones is gone.
Son of a bitch. This sucks.