overhead, without any fuss, the stars were going out

• Arthur C. Clarke wrote, in addition to many books, stories & such, 2001: A Space Odyssey (along w/ Kubrick). Apparently very unhappy with how it all turned out, poor Art. I myself have not yet seen it; holding out until I can see it on the big screen.


• Charlton Heston. Had he not starred in one of the best films of all time I might not have such a tender spot for the ol' curmudgeon (Michael Moore's melodramatic exploitation of the early-Alzheimer's era Chuck likely contributed to the smooshiness).


• Albert Hoffman. What my teenage years would have been like without the work of this man, I can't say. Died a centenarian. Believed that natural scientists could not avoid becoming mystics. Worked in cycle after cycle with ergot fungus, one compound resulting in methergine, an effective treatment for puerperal hemorrhage. The 25th compound was lysergic acid diethylamide. [Interestingly, during my own puerperal strife I had a healthy injection of methergine that resulted in reminiscent physical sensations, sans psychedelia. Now *that* was trippy.]


• David Foster Wallace. No, I have not read Infinite Jest, and I'm not sure I'll ever read it in its entirety. But I appreciate that he did nearly everything, including writing, including tennis, and hanging himself (though this is the work I would have preferred he leave off in favor of writing another article for Gourmet about lobster season). Though I will never, ever appreciate the endless "brightest stars are always horribly tormented" eulogistic ranting all over the internet.


• Martha. I miss her.