When a well-loved writer dies, we don’t just mourn her passing; we mourn, also, the books she will never write. This isn’t just true for those who died too young, or with just one or two books to their name: P G Wodehouse may have died in his nineties, having written a novel for every year of his life — but even so one wonders whether or not, had he been granted another year or so, we might have been given one more look at Blandings Castle or perhaps at Psmith.
This is particularly true for those, like Wodehouse, who have
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