This is my last post also.
I'll remember the good times, especially clutching my copy of The
Shadow Rising, starting to read as I walked to my car and not getting
any sleep that night. The entire book was a triumph. And I'll
remember the last really good time I had with Mr. Rigney, the
climactic battle in Lord of Chaos.
I stopped rereading or even saving my copies of the books years ago,
but I still bought them as they came out in hardcover, mainly I
suppose im memory of what was.. I guess I'll do the same if a jointly
authored final book comes out.
The first real newsgroup I followed assiduously was a bulletin board
on AOL in 1994 devoted to the Wheel of Time; I even subscribed to a
fan letter for a while. Here I think I discovered rawsfrj mostly
after the heyday, near the end of the hoopla over The Fires of Heaven,
and never did much but lurk.
Along with most everyone else I gradually drifted way starting before
and particularly after KOD and only ever checked posts every 3-4
months.
Farewell to everyone, see you on alt.horror.cthulhu or rawsf, or not
at all. My sympathies to Mr. Rigney's family. Thanks for all the
laughs and thoughtful discussion of a shared passion that faded with
time.
I'll close by quoting one of my favorite passages of prose in the
English language, by Joseph Conrad. It seems appropriate here.
Matt
The roar of the town resembled the roar of topping breakers, merciless
and strong, with a loud voice and cruel purpose; but overhead the
clouds broke; a flood of sun****ne streamed down the walls of grimy
houses. The dark knot of seamen drifted in sun****ne. To the left of
them the trees in Tower Gardens sighed, the stones of the Tower
gleaming, seemed to stir in the play of light, as if remembering
suddenly all the great joys and sorrows of the past, the fighting
prototypes of these men; press-gangs; mutinous cries; the wailing of
women by the riverside, and the shouts of men welcoming victories. The
sun****ne of heaven fell like a gift of grace on the mud of the earth,
on the remembering and mute stones, on greed, selfishness; on the
anxious faces of forgetful men. And to the right of the dark group the
stained front of the Mint, cleansed by the flood of light, stood out
for a moment, dazzling and white like a marble palace in a fairy tale.
The crew of the Narcissus drifted out of sight.
I never saw them again. The sea took some, the steamers took others,
the graveyards of the earth will account for the rest. Singleton has
no doubt taken with him the long record of his faithful work into the
peaceful depths of an hospitable sea. And Donkin, who never did a
decent day's work in his life, no doubt earns his living by
discoursing with filthy eloquence upon the right of labour to live. So
be it! Let the earth and the sea each have its own.
A gone ****pmate, like any other man, is gone for ever; and I never saw
one of them again. But at times the spring-flood of memory sets with
force up the dark River of the Nine Bends. Then on the waters of the
forlorn stream drifts a ****p - a shadowy ****p manned by a crew of
Shades. They pass and make a sign, in a shadowy hall. Haven't we,
together and upon the immortal sea, wrung out a meaning from our
sinful lives? Good-bye brothers! You were a good crowd. As good a
crowd as ever fisted with wild cries the beating canvas of a heavy
foresail; or tossing aloft, invisible in the night, gave back yell for
yell to a westerly gale.
THE END
|
