David G. Hartwell (1941-2016) The Holobiont Mourns
Thirty years ago, a cotton-ribboned manuscript typed from four penciled notebooks about fish women had been rejected by several New York publishers. A Bryn Mawr classmate Mimi Panitch brought it to the attention of an editor at Tor. A brief note suggested we meet at a con, it might have been Lunacon. Formally dressed and pregnant with my first child, I went to meet the editor at the appointed time. A table in the bedroom was full of empty bottles. I nearly walked out, not knowing that David hosted fans all night. Instead I stayed and published most of my fiction career with David’s insightful conversations. But all beings great and small pass on, only their ripples cast wider circles. The holobiont mourns, and goes on.