Diana Wynne Jones
March 26, 2011
I am bereft. Her books have been a joy to me for so much of my life. I introduced both my children to them, to their delight.
I’ve never understood why Diana Wynne Jones is not acclaimed in Britain and the world as the foremost author for children, young adult, and adult. No two books were the same for her. Her creativity seemed limitless. Fantasy, myth, science fiction: perhaps they all fall into speculative fiction. But though the approach varied, she always created worlds you wanted to live in. She always created characters you wanted to know. You picked up a story of hers and finished it with a bittersweet sigh compounded of sheer contentment and delight mixed with sorrow that it was over.
She is one of the few authors I would buy a book from without stopping to wonder if it would be good. I knew it would. They always were. I reread her books regularly. Not many authors can stand up to that sort of scrutiny, but she never seemed to put a foot wrong. Everything worked. Nothing jarred.
Her book, ‘Sudden Wild Magic’ is the only one labelled adult, but stories such as ‘Deep Secret’ or ‘Dark Lord of Derkholm’ are equally complex. And even the most simple stories held that inimitable charm. Chrestomanci, ‘Dogsbody’, the Dalemark Quartet: they enriched my life. The inimitable ‘Tough Guide to Fantasyland’ is a delight.
Her wealth of ideas, the joy of her style, the warmth and love she brought to each book: no one I’ve read has come close.
And cats. She loved cats.
I shall miss knowing she’s in the world, weaving her spells of joy for me to share.