Hilary Mantel has died: what terrible words to write. Mourning her will, of course, primarily be the heavy, difficult work of those who were closest to her, especially her husband, Gerald. Her readers will acutely feel the loss of the unwritten books, the plays, the stories.
At just 70, there was so much more that seemed to be welling up inside her: she had talked of writing more fiction (though not, at least for the time being, historical novels). She had recently adored working in theatre, adapting, with Ben Miles, the third of her Wolf Hall trilogy, The Mirror and the Light. I wanted more of it all: more stories; more of her penetrating, acerbic essays and criticism.
