One of the saddest things about growing old is how much that you love dies.
I suppose I’m fortunate in several respects. I’m the oldest of five children in my family, so if things go according to plan, I will be the one to go first, and many of my college friends are 10 years or so younger than I am since I went back to college in my late twenties.
With the exception of a couple of relatives who died young and one lifelong friend who died before his 65th birthday, many of the people I care about who should be alive are still alive.
On the other hand, I lose writers that I love.
So far at least, none of the writers who have died can be said to have died young. I read nearly everything Robert B. Parker wrote starting when I was 27 and I discovered Stuart Woods in my mid 30s. Both men died in their seventies, but since they were both essentially just guys churning out reasonable series stories. there wasn’t much of a dropoff when their estates had other writers continue their characters.
It will bother me to lose Stephen King, but he is only two years older than I am. I really enjoy Greg Iles, and he is 10 years younger than I am, but he has had all sorts of health problems and doesn’t publish all that often.
Pat Conroy
The one I really miss is Pat Conroy. He was a few years younger than me, 70 when he died in 2016, and it has been seven years since his last novel. In fact. starting with “The Great Santini” in 1976, Conroy published only five novels in 40 years. He was about 150 miles into a sixth when he died.
Only three of them were made into movies — “Santini,” “The Lords of Discipline” and “The Prince of Tides.” The last two were both disappointing because of important plot points in the novels that were omitted or changed. He wrote just two more novels after “Prince of Tides” in 1986. Both were wonderful books but neither have been made into movies.
It’s understandable with “Beach Music” (1995), a story with so much story that it would take two or three movies to tell. “South of Broad” (2009) would work as one film, but the story — about racism, AIDS and a serial killer — might not sell.
Both are essentially South Carolina stories, which probably limits them as well.
The Prince of Tides
“Prince of Tides” is also a South Carolina book, but the film is mostly a New York City story. It is handled well, but so much of the Carolina stuff that makes the book wonderful is left out of the movie. That doesn’t bother me, because I can always read the book again.
In fact, my biggest disappointment is that Conroy never even made it halfway through the novel he was writing when he died. “The Storms of Aquarius” was only about a third finished, and despite what his agent Nan Talese said eight years ago, it’s difficult to imagine it ever being published.
At least I’ll get one more Greg Iles novel. “Southern Man,” the last of his Penn Cage novels, comes out in two weeks.
