When an Author Dies

Today Toni Morrison died. Now, I have never read any of Morrison's works, but they are on my list of literary intendeds and I've heard from many about how powerful her works are. Today, this latter fact has crystalized in front of me. I have heard from so many people about how moving Morrison's works are and the impact she has had on them. That's a rather special thing. And although we usually focus on an author's works over the author themselves, we all feel something when an author we particularly cherished passes.

There are a few reasons we are saddened by an author passing. Obviously, the thought of death is always a chilling one, but it goes deeper than that. Even if an author hasn't written anything new in a very long time, when they are alive, we always hold onto some little hope that perhaps they will write something new, impart some undiscovered wisdom to us. My own experience with author deaths has been most keen with Harper Lee. She only wrote one book (yes, I know about the other one, but it was a rough draft of her actual book), yet I continued to wonder, to dream that she would write something else for me. When they're gone, that implicit hope is gone, too.

There is also something special about reading the works of a really great author who is living. When studying literature, we often read the works of the dead. Yes, literature is timeless, immortal, but it really feels alive when, well, the author is, too. You can analyze a novel and wonder "is this what the author wants, thinks, intends?" And sometimes you can get an answer. There is less guessing, I suppose. We as readers are still in a dialogue with the author. We are always in dialogue with the author and their works, but digging through old diary entries and letters, infringing on their privacy, is different from an author going to an event and speaking on their works in the moment.

But what causes me, and many of us, to feel the most empty is that a fantasy dies. I had thought I was alone in my crazy author dreams, but I have learned today that I am not alone. When Harper Lee was alive, I had always held onto the delusion that I could meet her, that I could talk to her about books, the impact of her work on my life, my own writing. Of course, this would never happen, but because she was here I really believed it could. This wasn't just silly because, well, why would that happen, but because my literary idol was somewhat of a recluse that would never talk about To Kill a Mockingbird. But that didn't matter. It wasn't impossible. Now it is impossible, leaving me to feel like I missed an opportunity that never was. We'll never get to ask that question we had about a book. Or see what it was like to know students read your book. Or make sure that they knew how special they are to us.

We never met these authors, but we knew them. We learn so much about a person, grow so close to them, by reading their words—the most intimate form of communication, straight from their minds to ours. And that's why we feel like we lost an old friend. Whether an author knows it or not, they become a friend once we fall in love with their words, a special bond. And although an author has left us, they are still here for us to meet again. You can never die if you have written something. Just look at Shakespeare. He never leaves high schoolers alone.

Love,
Christina

Dedicated to my dear friend Sofia