I saw Frank McCourt do a live reading when I was 15 and I was spellbound. It was only 90 minutes but when I left the theatre, I realized some writers are just as magical off the page as they are on it.

When he died, I was so upset my mother bought me a signed copy of Angela’s Ashes for my shelf and it was a relief to realize that he would always be there.

Hilary Mantel died last week and the sound of anguish that tore from my throat when the news came up on my phone scared my husband half to death himself. My reaction might seem a bit dramatic but, Mantel saved me during the first COVID lockdown. The Wolf Hall trilogy pulled me so effectively into its pages I wasn’t sure I’d be able to ever leave – or I’d ever want to. It was such a powerful reminder that in a world where it seemed like everything was changing and things that used to be part of my daily life were gone I could still find solace in a good book.

Or in this case, a set of extraordinary books.

Since Wolf Hall, I’ve explored her other novels (Beyond Black was unlike anything I’ve ever read) her short stories (regular readers of the blog know how much I loved The Assassination of Margaret Thatcher) and her essays (Mantel Pieces was remarkable both for its pun title and its contents).

Of course, I’m hardly alone in my sadness over losing Mantel – the news broke the heart of the literary world[1] – but it always feels personal to lose a writer you love. You lose the possibility of something new; you lose the possibility of seeing them in person, of handing them your book so they can sign it for you. Their words become a finite resource. Something you can turn to and examine time and again, but that will never be replenished.

I don’t have any signed or special copies of Hilary Mantel’s works – in fact almost of all my copies of her books are from used bookstores or library book sales. They have cracked spines, worn covers, and the top right corner of the first page has a little price marked in pencil. But you can also tell they’ve been read all the way through. They were enjoyed and then put in a pile for donation or re-sale, because of course they would sell again. Of course, someone else would pick them up.

I’m sure one day a one-of-a-kind, must-have, it’s so special I will sometimes flip through it randomly just to look at it, version of something by her will find itself into my collection. But for now, I’m just grateful I can go to my shelf and hear her voice again, even from beyond the grave.

[1] https://www.theguardian.com/books/2022/sep/23/hilary-mantel-remembered-she-was-the-queen-of-literature