I just learned from Making Light that Thomas M. Disch, the author of 334 and On Wings of Song — two of the best works of SF I’ve ever read — killed himself two days ago. Damn. Fucking damn it. Yes, he was a bastard sometimes, particularly lately, but he wrote some amazing stuff that spoke of a larger spirit and artistic sensibility than most people ever know. I wish he had had a better life.
ETA: NY Times Obituary