Yesterday I was in a theatre watching Elegy, based on Philip Roth's The Dying Animal. At one point I cried when Penelope Cruz broke the news of her advanced stage cancer to her lit professor/writer/lover Ben Kingsley.
This morning when I opened the pages of the newspaper, I read about the death of John Updike. He died of cancer. I loved John's non-fiction, especially his book reviews and essays. I read some of his novels but did not enjoy them. The language he used was so beautiful I could never reach the story. More than his, I assume it was my limitation.
On an unrelated note, I read this story on self-publishers in the NYT that says what I have always maintained:
The point may soon come when there are more people who want to write books than there are people who want to read them.