There's a myth that when you finish a good book, the author dies for you. At least, I often feel a sense of loss. I was near the end of a fine book of essays. I heard the author was dying, incurable.
Famous mass media man, favoured by the more selective viewers, journalist, interviewer, novellist, cultured critic, humourist, philosopher, a thinker's man.
Ought I to have read that final essay, defy the myth? Next day I scanned the papers. His death was not reported. I trust we both breathed normally again.