Pete Hamill died on Wednesday morning. He was eighty-five. He was an old-school newspaper man from a bygone era. He was an extraordinary author. Several of his books are among my all-time favorite reads, including, but not limited to, Forever, A Drinking Life, Snow in August, and Downtown: My Manhattan.
A great, whip-smart friend of mine, Danielle Esposito, who has been a passionate Hamill fan for as long as I have known her, summed up his work with simple eloquence that eludes me. We chatted on Wednesday afternoon by way of Instagram Message. She wrote, "Just such a great writer...still haven't found anyone that can put me in an environment so well that I can actually smell the place. Ugh."
If you have not read any of Hamill's work, then might I suggest most strongly that you should. You will be better for it. He not only entertained, which he did, but he educated and enlightened his reader.
He shall be missed. He shall not be replaced.
He shall be mourned because, like nostalgia, he was genuine. He actually happened.
Safe journey home, Pete. Thank you for every minute of it.
-AK
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