With rue my heart is laden
It was, indeed, a sad morning, in a weird way. Old friend, and he’s, like, really old, he was texting me belated birthday crap, and then, he wanted to let me know, since I missed the news, that the author of the Serge Storms series had passed.
This is basically the second time in as many months when I think the report of death might be exaggerated, or just a ploy. I wouldn’t put it past Serge’s author to fake his own death in one of the macabre but justifiably so manners he covers in his fiction.
I had just rearranged my shelf a little to make room for the next one, although, there was no title announced. Usually, booksellers have a “cover to be announced,” or “coming soon” notices, even when the publication can be up to a year away.
Will be sad, and I don’t know if any kind of a sidekick can maintain the frantic, manic pace of the novels with encyclopedic knowledge of Florida’s trivia, and strong will to do the right thing even when it’s wrong.
As we began to emerge from the pandemic lockdown, version 2, I took it upon myself to reread a couple of the of the books from recent years, noting that there was hidden levels of biting satire, political commentary with no agenda, and other such ironic bits buried in the prose, the maniacal wanderings of madman.
It’s a fine line between brilliance and madness, Serge — along with his creator — Tim Dorsey — did a good job of dancing back and forth.
Godspeed, you will be missed.
