If you’ve been reading this blog for a while, you might remember that last year I was completely swept away by The Meaning of Night and The Glass of Time, two of the most well-done modern Victorian pastiches I have ever read. This morning, I awake to the news, via Harriet Devine’s blog, that Michael Cox died on March 31 at age 60. For years, he had been battling a rare form of cancer, which actually drove him to publish his two wonderful novels. Alas, the cancer did not give him time to finish the third book in the series, which he did envision as a trilogy, although each novel can stand on its own.
“For Death is the meaning of night; the eternal shadow into which all lives must fall, all hopes expire.”
—Michael Cox, The Meaning of Night