Something dies within us when we learn of someone's death. Luckily for writers and artists in general there is always the remaining work which will live a lot longer than their physical presence.
A couple of summers ago while in Paris I decided to visit the Cemetery of Montparnasse. There I found many known names and a great number of unknowns. I was specifically looking for this grave of the great American novelist and critic.
And whilst standing before the imposing black stone of her tomb I could not help but let the mind wander, and pondered about our finite amount of days on this earth; of our wasting time on futile exercises and of how we could have written a better novel of our lives had we pursued our dreams with more faith and dedication.
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