One last glance at the news before I hit the sack unearthed this sad note:
Arthur C. Clarke, a visionary science fiction writer who won worldwide acclaim with more than 100 books on space, science and the future, died Wednesday in his adopted home of Sri Lanka, an aide said. He was 90.
Although I wasn’t a fan of all his work, the man remained a colossus in science fiction. His short story anthology, which runs to more than 1,000 pages, is exquisite, even much of the work which scientific advances have rendered obsolete. He was last of the old-school hard SF writers, whose number also included the likes of Carl Sagan. In recent years he collaborated frequently with Stephen Baxter, who some list among the finest hard SF authors currently working.
I first became aware of Clarke through his television programmes, and I only watched them because my father was interested. It was many, many years before I picked up one of Clarke’s novels, and even that was after seeing 2001: A Space Odyssey. I regret not delving into his work sooner.
