I’m not supposed to be writing this entry. This is supposed to be me talking about WorldCon, and how great it was, and how re-energized I felt. Then, COVID-19 finally decided to visit.
And now, Peter Straub has died.
I do not want to write this entry. But, how could I not?
I was told to never meet your heroes. They’ll disappoint you – be rude, bitter, and resentful. Peter Straub is a literary hero of mine. I read him in high school, via an SFBC edition of Floating Dragon. From there, it was Ghost Story, and Koko.
And then Mystery. I pulled Mystery from the library more times than I could count. I had a battered paperback and, eventually, a signed hardback. Of all of Peter’s books, it was the one I dove into the most. When I went to get it signed by him at the Library of Congress book fair, I was nervous as all get out.
He smiled and said, “Oh. This is one of my favorites.”
Later, he was a guest at my first ReaderCon. I attended panels about him – and he attended as well, laughing in the back, telling stories. During a talk, he mentioned his first books: Marriages and Under Venus – he was not a fan. But he talked about this moment in Under Venus when a character looked out into the streets of Rome at night and thought he saw someone – a friend, long dead – walking the streets. He followed that specter and ended up in the Coliseum, at night, alone.
The way Peter described it was haunting, in all the best ways. Afterwards I went up to him and said, “The way you describe that scene – you’re making me want to find a copy of Under Venus.”
He laughed. He had a big laugh, and a great smile, and said, “Oh, no. It’s not worth it. Save yourself the pain! I’ll see you later.”
My literary hero loved jazz, and weird stories, and seeing the dark in normal things. He laughed, treated everyone with respect – even some guy he’d only run into once. He loved talking about books, recommending literature he found inspiring which didn’t fit into easy molds. And he was a genuinely nice guy.
After his passing, memorials came out of the woodwork. Not just about his work – the wonders and terrors he’d brought into our world – but the person himself. Peter Straub the essayist. Peter Straub the poet. Peter Straub – the actor! Well, guest actor on One Life to Live. Peter Straub the soap opera fan.
And every memorial was warmth. And love. And bereavement.
Not just because there would never be a new Peter Straub book on the shelves. Or we’d never see his blind retired detective on the soaps again. Because we lost the rarest of things – a talented, hard working author who was genuine and kind to everyone he met. Even shmoes like me.
So, everyone, please. Raise a glass. Put on some Dave Brubeck. Hold your copy of Mystery tight. Here’s to Peter’s spirit living on in all of us.
Biomechanoid Blues 