Paul Quarrington has died...

[Le_Ministre_de_l_au-dela]

I’m sorry to report that Paul Quarrington has succumbed to lung cancer - story here.

This wasn’t a surprise, not by a long road, but still… I think I’m going to curl up with my copy of Whale Music for a while.

[Le_Ministre_de_l_au-dela]

The thing that I appreciate most about Paul Quarrington’s writing is his astonishing ability to come up with characters who are lovable, ruined men. He writes about the mystic qualities of fishing, hockey, rock music, baseball from the standpoint of magnificent, shambling, obstinate failures who are still somehow closer to God than the flawed, driven people who hound them.

"Now around this time in my life I was, as you may have gathered, immoderate in my leisure activities. My job as rock-and-roll musician placed me, from 9:00 PM until one in the morning, in various bars across the land. This was handy because that’s where they seemed to keep al the beer and whiskey. After each gig we would thunder off to wind down, which we did by consuming amphetamines, washing them down with more beer and whiskey. Sometime around six in the morning we would pass out. Our sleep featured bad dreams and heart palpitations and was about as restful as a cattle drive. When we arose we would begin again.

This kind of lifestyle has repercussions on many levels. It takes its toll healthwise. I’ve paid most severely in the gums department. My gums are those of a seventy-year-old man. My periodontist says they are testament to years of ill health. Of course, worse than any physical debt is the one paid by your spirit. You end up with a tiny thing, perhaps the size of a postage stamp. A small and persistent pain is the only hint that it’s there at all."

• from “Fishing with my Old Guy”…

"Preston the Magnificent, Jr., (or, as he preferred to call himself privately, Preston the Adequate) stood outside the George Theater dressed in an old morning suit that had belonged to his father. Being a much larger man than Preston the Magnificent, Sr., he had only managed to do up one button on the slate-grey jacket. The lapels wowed over his girlish breasts; the jacket fell away on either side of his belly and the tails splayed. Despite the fact that he complemented it with sandals, exhibiting his oddly shaped and quite hairy toes, Preston felt that the suit lent an air of mournful dignity to the proceedings…

• from “The Spirit Cabinet”…

I have a soft spot for King Leary, which I seem to have loaned to someone unworthy in my zealous proselytization, but if, as I hope, I am making you in any way curious to check some of his writing, Whale Music is a delightful way to spend a couple hundred pages.

Paul’s page at Fantastic Fiction.

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a bottle to finish…

[Larry_Mudd]

I’ve read everything he published, and keep most on the shelf because I know I’ll read them again and again. Just the right admixture of off-the-wall humour and sensitivity.

Keep your trousers fastened, Paul.