The Best of Friends
rating: +6+x

by TopHatBionicle


Three weeks ago, the literary world lost two of the greatest up-and-coming novelists of our time. Although virtually unknown outside of their fanbase, Harry Walters and Peter Ellison will, to me, forever be authors rivaling the likes of T.S. Eliot, Oscar Wilde, Langston Hughes, and Emily Dickinson. I remember much of the friendship between the two, at least the parts that they showed publicly. In my time as both assistant manager and manager of the Steven Benson publishing house, I saw them go from amateur satirists with a budding rivalry to two of the greatest unknown novelists in the history of this country. Indeed, I can even confirm the rumors that they were working on what they called their “greatest triumph of romance” at the time of their all-too-early and tragic demise. The loss of this work, however pales in comparison to the loss of two men who were, as much as any two men could be, the best of friends.


As many of their fans will know, Harrison Walters was the only child of a single mother in Baltimore. After a modest local education, he moved to New York City to work at the Steven Benson publishing house as an editor and writer for various magazines. Harry had a skill of seeing not just the bright side, but the humorous side in any situation. He had the keen observation skills and keener tongue of a raven, mixed with the generally happy and playful disposition of a parrot; qualities which made him both well-known and well-liked within and without the workplace. Seeing his talent for wit, the manager (Mr. Fritz, who preceded me in the position) saw fit to raise his pay and, eventually, give Harry his own recurring column in the biweekly satire magazine O’Brien’s Flann. It was in this column that many were introduced to Harry's droll satirization of every aspect and walk of life, with shockingly little offense taken by most given the nature and popularity of his writings. The few who did voice objections to his wit would often be surprised by a visit from Harry, after which their weak protestations turned to mirth and laughter. Harry was always a wonderfully kind and friendly sort of fellow, and one could not help but love him, even as he poked and prodded in jest.

In contrast, Peter Ellison was born into a wealthy Bostonian family. He received the highest education his parents saw fit to pay for, including studying abroad for much of his college education. He began writing at the age of fourteen, and even from that time he was considered to be a prodigy with a pen by his professors and his peers. Many expected that, once he finally settled into his own style, Ellison would soar higher than eagles in the literary world. He experimented with every theme and genre, from jovial comedies and satires to heartfelt romances and dramas, to the most thought-provoking tales of fantasy and mystery. His chief strength, however, was his ability to make the reader feel with his words, as a great musician makes one feel with his music. Mr. Ellison had such a skill with words that he could, with only a pen, bring out any emotion in even the coldest and most stone-hearted of the human race. Perhaps this was due to his own deep understanding of the human heart, for thinly veiled beneath an affected air of smug superiority, there swirled within him a vortex of passion that gave his soul a vibrance that showed clear through his writings.

Although not the most well-known pair of writers, it’s surprising to me just how many of their fans don’t know—or don’t care to know—what started the rivalry that grew into a lifelong friendship between the two. Ellison had recently returned home to Boston after publishing his first romance novel, A Rose for Rosie, while Walters was in the midst of his fifth year writing his satire column. I imagine Ellison must have caught Walters’ column published in the November issue of that year, in which Walters had stated:

“It seems to me that the recent spike in romance stories, like those of Jerry Phillips or Peter Ellison, is akin to the changing leaves of Autumn: beautiful and picturesque in all their colors and variations for but a fleeting moment, until they all turn the same shade of brown and fall flat on your lawn, becoming little more than a nuisance. I’ll certainly be happy when winter comes this year.”

Of course, no actual harm was meant by this comment (and, indeed, that year had a record number of romance publications), but it seemed that Ellison took a somewhat personal offense. In a letter to the publisher, which was published in the next month’s issue, Ellison wrote:

“It shouldn’t take a special skill to tell the difference between a fallen Autumn leaf and a beautiful blood-red rose, even if they briefly share a colour. Perhaps if botany is not one’s expertise, one should refrain from commenting on it. (Note, I use the proper spelling of ‘colour’, and not the archaic form ‘color’.)”

This was seemingly responded to in Walters’ next column—which was not in the least bit about literature or botany—contained the curious phrase:

“It is well-known that a flowering rose lasts for even less time than its leaves, and to imply otherwise seems as brazenly pretentious an act as to put a ‘u’ in the word ‘color’.”

At this point, fans of both writers took notice of these slights toward one another, which seemed to pop up in every issue thereafter. Back and forth the writers went, using imagery such as roses and leaves, polished gemstones, swans on a lake, and a rather odd scene of a waterfall at sunset conjured up by Ellison. Each writer would take a crack shot at some work or opinion expressed by the other, which would then be returned in kind, all under the guise of Walters' satire column and Ellison's short stories and letters. To some, it seemed like a simple test of each writer’s wits, while others saw their words dripping with the vilest venom. To their credit, the two writers were always civil in their discourse, never attacking the other’s character or person. If only all debates could be handled with such eloquence and grace, surely the world would be all the better for it.

This back-and-forth came to a head when, after two years of letters and stories and columns, Ellison sent in a short story titled “The Repentant Satirist”. A rather on-the-nose allegory, in it a satire columnist named “Walter Harrison” makes light of the works of a world-renowned author named “Ellison Peters”. The two argue back-and-forth in a way that would be humorous were it not all too familiar, until the author Peters shows up at Harrison’s house and shows off his “undeniable genius”, after which Harrison begs profoundly for his forgiveness, groveling at the author’s feet.

I was a junior member of the managing staff at the time, and the one who first read this story. Putting aside the blatant fact that, aside from the ending, this story was hardly a work of fiction, it was also nowhere near Ellison’s usual standards of quality. At first, I was simply planning to write back to Ellison saying so, but a note accompanying the story made me reconsider. This note, which baffled and bewildered me, requested that his story not be published directly, but be given directly to Mr. Walters for him to write about in his satire column! I could not imagine Harry’s reaction; indeed, I’d never seen the man truly angry about anything. In the end, I could only hand the story and note to Mr. Fritz and let him decide what to do about it. To my shock and horror, Mr. Fritz followed the instructions on Ellison’s note! To this day the decision still boggles my mind, but Fritz handed Walters the story and said, “Whatever you want to do with this, I’ll print it.”

Harry Walters published Peter Ellison’s story verbatim, with no edits save for a small note at the end:

“The author of this piece is clearly suffering from delusions of grandeur. I’d love to have him come down to New York to see what might happen outside the realm of his fantasies.”

We sold a record number of magazines that month.


After this climax to the back-and-forth, fans of the two authors were in a frenzy. Everyone expected something major to happen, whether it was an angry letter from Ellison demanding Walters’ resignation, a plague of outrageous slander against Ellison from Walters, or an all-out war between the two writers. Men eagerly anticipated the onslaught of insults, while women swooned at the prospect of their passionate prose. Newspapers prepared for a sensational, sententious smackdown, and fellow writers of the day were ready to take sides and cheer for their chosen champion. Still, the last thing anyone expected was for Ellison to accept Walters’ invitation. I had never known Harry to resort to violence, but who can say what a man of Baltimorean blood would do when provoked so brazenly. No one—not the newspapers, not the authors, not Fritz, and certainly not me—expected Ellison to show up in New York and check into a hotel on Fifth Avenue.

So, of course, that was precisely what he did. Ellison claimed this was for a long-awaited trip to see some Broadway shows, but, given the timing, I don’t think there was a single soul involved who didn’t suspect the true reason for his visit.

The literary soul of the city was alive, and all felt some sort of confrontation was inevitable. Fritz tasked me, a good friend of Harry’s, to accompany him whenever he went out of the office. He said this was in case some fanatic tried to jump Walters in the street, but I suspect it was more to get an objective, first-hand account of the expected meeting with Peter Ellison. This was a more difficult task than I had anticipated, as Harry suddenly manifested a stealthiness I had never seen in him before, slipping away just as I had my attention elsewhere. Ellison, too, would silently slip out of the public’s sight, so that no one could reliably keep tabs on either man. The confrontation was a long time coming, as the two writers suddenly showed no interest in actually meeting each other. Indeed, if it weren’t for the nonchalant way they both strode about the city, one might have assumed they were actively avoiding one another. It wasn’t until the fifth evening of Ellison’s week in New York that a public meeting of the two writers occurred, and it was a most baffling meeting indeed. Here I will quote my own account, written for O’Brien’s Flann and republished by many other literary magazines:

“My friend Harry Walters and I had just sat down in a bagel shop off Sixth Avenue, where many from our workplace would frequent on breaks or after work. I sat with my tea, and him with his coffee, when suddenly a tall, lean man with a face right out of a romance picture politely asked if he could join us. He looked wholly out-of-place, with his bright blue frilled suit reminding me somewhat of a peacock. My friend motioned for the newcomer to sit, and they chatted idly while Harry scribbled in his notebook and the man placed a folded newspaper on the table. It was singularly odd; they made small talk about such mundane things as the weather, the coffee, the buzz of the street outside, and yet I, and, to my knowledge, Harry, had never seen this man before in our lives. The uncanniness grew tenfold when I realized that the cafe had grown suddenly quiet, and a quick glance around showed every eye in the building was upon the three of us. It was then, and I feel embarrassed that it took me this long, that my eyes landed on the newspaper the man had laid on the table, and I saw his very face on the front page. With a start I realized that this man was none other than Peter Ellison, and he had unknowingly sat down across from Harry Walters.

At this point, I should mention that I am extremely averse to conflict, and so I broke into a cold sweat upon realizing that I would be caught up in the middle of any confrontation between the two. And still, they chatted incessantly, about the ordinary and mundane. Was it possible the two writers, the co-centers of such a heated public rivalry, simply didn’t recognize each other? The topic turned to literature, and then to satire, and I knew at some point one must realize who the other was, but at no point in the whole of our lunch break did either’s identity come to light. By now, no one was giving the pretense of not watching the pair converse, and quite a crowd of fans had gathered outside the cafe. It was obvious to everyone that this was the long-awaited meeting of the two bitter rivals—everyone except the two rivals themselves! I felt that I should point them out to each other, and at the same time felt that would be some kind of sin. So I sat in uncomfortable silence, as I and everyone around shared a feeling of excited bewilderment that I’m sure can only happen in a New York cafe at lunchtime.
The time came for Harry and me to get back to work, and I was still transfixed by the bizarreness of the whole situation, until I heard my friend say, ‘It’s been a pleasure meeting you! My name is Harry Walters, by the way.’ I distinctly recall Ellison making some overdramatic motion to go with his overdramatic response. ‘Not THE Harry Walters, who gave my short story such a glowing review in last week’s issue of O’Brien’s Flann!’ In response, my friend Harry adopted his own theatrical tone, stating, ‘Only if you are THE Peter Ellison, whose story deserved every word of my “glowing review”.’ The very air in the room stood still, as all braced in anticipation for an explosion of passions from the two writers, identities now having been revealed. The tense moment could have been an hour or a year for all anyone cared, as the two men stared into each other’s eyes in a way I still cannot find the words to describe. At length, and mercifully so, Ellison broke the silence with a soft, yet tense whisper, full of suggestion. ‘I believe you invited me to test the realism of my story’s ending.’ My friend smiled and suggested, ‘Well, perhaps that particular issue would best be settled in a more… private setting.’
‘Indeed!’ Ellison responded, retrieving his hat and placing it on his head. ‘I look forward to it!’ And with that he left the cafe, leaving everyone inside in a dumbstruck stupor. Only my friend Harry seemed unaffected, even though by all accounts he should be the most shaken by this encounter. He reminded me of the need to get back to the publishing house, and I followed him back to our place of work half in a daze, my mind still trying to comprehend the interaction I had just witnessed. Strange as it was, it has become even stranger as I look back to write this account, as the two writers had agreed to meet, but neither specified a time or place.”

Forgive my past self’s long-windedness.

As for that second meeting, it was suspected to have happened the next day. A rumor spread that Walters was not only seen entering the hotel where Ellison was staying, but also entering his room. When word of this development spread, fans of the writers showed up in droves, all clamoring to find out what room Ellison had reserved. The hotel staff were overrun, and eventually it was deduced that Ellison’s room was number 682. Fans flocked to the sixth floor to see what they might hear of the confrontation, and a great commotion occurred when sounds of a possible scuffle were heard from the room. I’ve heard, second hand, that the commotion increased when Ellison came to the door with his shirt unbuttoned, only for all noise to cease altogether when he complained that the crowd was not only infringing upon his privacy, but had interrupted a rather inspiring dream he was having. It became apparent that Ellison was a restless sleeper, and the noises from the room had been from the crowd awakening him. Furthermore, he professed complete ignorance as to Harry Walters’ whereabouts and ordered the crowd to disperse and leave him to his rest. Whether or not the police were called is up for debate, but eventually the fans left, disappointed that the rumored meeting had apparently been just a rumor.

There were many such alleged meetings over the next week, none of which could be confirmed or corroborated. It seemed as though the two writers, whose meeting was so highly anticipated, were destined never to meet. Then came the morning for Thursday, October 8th, the last day of Ellison’s trip to New York. I arrived at the office, late as usual, sat down at my desk, and started doing the clerical work I was accustomed to. It took me an embarrassingly long time to notice the utter silence that was pervading the room, and longer still to find its source; again embarrassing, since it was the only part of the room that was not silent.

Sitting at Harry Walters’ desk were two figures: Harry Walters himself, which in and of itself was to be expected, and a second man whose presence was completely unexpected! A presence which ran so contrary to the reality that had permeated the literary world of the past week that my mind had a difficult time understanding who exactly it was who had accompanied Walters to work. More contrary still, they were talking avidly about their works and their writings, sharing notes, giving pointers, and generally acting as though they had been colleagues and friends for years, rather than the bitter rivals that the world had painted them as. I still recall the way everyone in the office stared at the pair, dumbfounded and aghast, as unable as I to comprehend the new reality before them.

This reality was that Peter Ellison, who in the past had exchanged many scathing pieces of wit with Harry Walters, was sitting at the man’s desk, gleefully working with him to improve his column! And Harry was gladly accepting the help, such that the mutual respect and admiration the two men exuded was as sickly sweet as two lovers in the deepest of infatuations. It produced an uncanny, almost unnerving sense of unreality in the office, one to which Walters and Ellison either were oblivious or else chose to ignore. That day, the two men, surrounded by confused and bewildered magazine writers, were entirely in a world of their own, free from any and all troubles or burdens that life has a habit of heaping upon us.


Peter Ellison returned to Boston the next day, and Harry Walters saw him off at the train station. By now the strange events of the previous day had been made public, and every news outlet (including many of our own magazines) has romanticized the ordeal into a dramatic story of bitter rivals becoming the best of friends, a shared love of writing overcoming all enmity between the two. In the end, I think the truth was far more simple: the rivalry had been a friendly one from the start, one which the public had twisted into a bitter hatred, inflamed by a sense of the dramatic inherent to all good writers. Many disagree, but I have pointed out many times that the sarcastic and satirical back-and-forth never ended, nor did it get any less scathing on either part. The public simply had a different view on it, in light of the now-realized friendship.

The friendship must have been strong indeed, for within two years Harry Walters, a Baltimorean who had never set foot farther from his home than New York City, had moved up the coast to Boston and right into Peter Ellison’s own house! Some would have found this act suspect had it not been for the surrounding circumstances: only a week before, Peter Ellison’s parents had both been the victim of a drunk driver, mowed down in the heart of the historic city they had loved and lived their lives in. Peter was distraught. Even if the rumors of disagreements about his lack of prospective suitors had been true, it was clear to all that the now-orphaned author had loved his parents and missed them dearly. With no one in the world as close to the grieving writer as he, Harry had become housemates with Peter, to help his close friend through the trying time. Perhaps it was planned, or perhaps Peter never fully recovered from his loss, but Harry would never move out. He remained at his friend’s side, and in his house, until the day they both tragically perished.

After his parents’ funeral, Peter Ellison furiously threw himself into his writing. Many in the literary community encouraged him to take a break and let himself grieve, but this only made him write even more intensely. Surely this would’ve been self-destructive if Peter hadn’t had such a good and caring friend in Harry Walters. Harry never discouraged Peter from writing, but saw to his eating and rest and all other needs he might have had during that time. I think perhaps Harry understood Peter Ellison better than anyone else. I recall a line from a letter he wrote to me during those first months of his new life:

“People grieve in all sorts of ways, Mike. Some cry, some drink, some just stop and wait for the grief to pass. Some grieve in healthy ways, some grieve in unhealthy ways. Some grieve in traditional ways, while others have ways of grieving wholly their own. You remember how Peter rarely shows his feelings on his face, and that is because he knows he expresses them best in his writing. This fit of writing is his grief, and I will be here to help him grieve in his way, as we all must grieve in ours.”

Nine months later, The Darkness Between the Stars by Peter Ellison and Harry Walters, the first novel to bear both writers’ names, was published. It was a tale of love and loss, of happiness and tragedy, and crafted with such skill and passion that it was regarded as an instant classic amongst both the common reader and all the literary authorities of the day. I need not summarize the plot here, nor would my summary do it justice, but it must be said that its perfect blend of the fantastic and the mundane, both in the joys and sorrows of humanity portrayed, could not fail to entice and inspire a sense of wonder in any reader. And yet, even the most fantastic chapters of the book held so much relatability to the human condition that all could trace a sense of kinship with the characters. Some even saw the book as autobiographical, since parts of the novel could be connected back to the real lives of the two authors. At any rate, no one ever criticized Ellison’s intense fits of writing again, nor questioned Walters on taking care of Ellison during them. We all realized that this was simply the process of two geniuses at work.

And geniuses they would prove to be, over and over again throughout the next few decades. Fans will, of course, remember works such as Now, Forever, and Always; Twenty Paces at Sunset; All’s an Afternoon of Autumn; Gears of the Mind and Valves of the Heart; and The Janice Men, all published under both authors’ names. Their individual publishings never slowed, either, but it was clear to all that both authors put more care and passion into their joint works than either put into a solo endeavor. Many such joint works revolved around deep friendships between young men, and many believed they were based on the friendship between Walters and Ellison themselves. I recall many mothers wishing for their sons to have such deep and intimate friendships as the characters in those novels, or as Walters and Ellison themselves, no doubt romanticizing the authors’ friendship as church-going mothers often do.

That isn’t to say Ellison and Walters didn’t have an excellent friendship. They were rarely seen apart after becoming housemates, attending all social gatherings and events together. Some found it odd that neither man was ever seen to woo or court a woman, although many women claimed—but none ever proved—to be secret lovers of one or the other. Some thought that the authors’ friendship was so strong that the companionship of others seemed unnecessary. Others surmised that their passion for writing was stronger than all other passions, and so they were, as the saying goes, married to their work. Still others suggested that the two may simply be uninterested in the fairer sex, although the saucier writings of Ellison in particular provide evidence to the contrary. Whatever the case, such ponderers were few compared to how many praised their wholesome friendship as the Platonic ideal of friendship itself.

I remember, also, the great dinner parties the pair hosted for friends from Boston, Baltimore, and New York. Harry Walters invited me to all of these, and despite my dislike of large and noisome crowds, I graciously accepted the invitation whenever I could get away. What form of merriment these parties took on seemed greatly dependent on the two writers’ moods, particularly Ellison’s. Sometimes I attended tasteful banquets, other times I felt I had to be the sober man on a night of pub-crawling. I say these were mostly based on Ellison’s moods, for although Walters was certainly not a stranger to flights of fancy, as all writers must be, he was a gray pigeon compared to Ellison’s vibrant flamingo. A flamingo is, in fact, the bird that comes to mind when I recall the garish pink suit he wore one evening—although it was, at least, a pink that matched the decor.

Perhaps I should characterize Walters as more of a hen than a pigeon. Although many saw him as simply an enabler for Ellison, I could tell Walters was keeping his friend from going off the deep end, as it were. In wake of Ellison’s parents’ deaths, I know Walters took over most affairs of the estate, including paying all the housekeepers, cooks, gardeners, and other necessary staff of the manor. While one might have expected Ellison’s grief to let him and his house fall into disrepair, under Walters’ supervision the Ellison accounts stabilized as never before. Debts were paid, investments were profitable, and a substantial amount was put into separate funds for emergencies, travel, and other such future needs. Walters had, of course, come from a frugal family, and knew how to make the most of his money, however great or small the amount. Even so, having known Walters for years, I found the prospect of him being the responsible one in the friendship simultaneously hilarious and terrifying.

The greatest of all Ellison’s parties that I attended was when Harry’s mother Rose came to visit for a weekend. Ellison spared no expense in treating Mrs. Walters like royalty, to the point where Harry seemed to be perpetually blushing in embarrassment. Ellison saw to Mrs. Walters’s every need, and provided food and entertainment as one might expect in the lavish courts of Medieval European kings or ancient Chinese emperors. A big brass band played Jazz and Swing late into the night, while a troupe of actors played comedies and tragedies hand-selected by Ellison for the occasion. Greatest of all were the fire dancers, brought in from Hawaii to perform. These were no ordinary dancers, though; the Iwi Aka fire dancers were also magicians of the highest caliber, with traditions stolen from strange cults and elder races. They could make the fire dance with them as if the flames were themselves alive, using strange techniques and mystical signs. The event was quite a spectacle, and it attracted so much of the Boston public that, at one point, I thought that the whole city had somehow fit itself into Ellison’s mansion.

All could tell that Rose Walters was enjoying being the center of attention, despite her son’s embarrassment. At the time I wondered why Ellison was so keen to impress Mrs. Walters, entertaining the idea that he may want to prove his worthiness as Harry’s friend. But Rose Walters is a strong, solid woman, and not easily swayed by doting and frivolity, no matter how much she enjoyed it. No, I think the reason is, perhaps, far simpler: Ellison had lost his parents, his only close relatives, and wished to, for but a moment, be part of a family once again.


It was after this historic banquet, and, I suspect, Ellison’s full acceptance into the Walters family, that both the writing and the parties were suspended for a time. Ellison and Walters, sometimes by themselves and sometimes accompanied by Mrs. Walters, spent the next several years taking trips to every corner of the inhabited world. The fire dancers must have impressed them greatly, since it seemed that more than half the trips took them somewhere in the Pacific. Ellison’s family had old money, so I suspect even the many traveling expenses barely put a dent in his fortune. I once jokingly compared the pair to birds of paradise: rare, expensive, and only to be found in the tropics. Looking back, I think migratory birds would’ve been a better analogy; the pair seeking a patch of inspiration for the nest of a magnum opus that, sadly, would never come to fruition.

There were other changes—mainly in Ellison—that I saw during these years. He became a bit more down-to-earth, perhaps recovering from the deaths of his parents. Both men seemed more content in life overall, happy simply to be with each other and as much out of public life as two successful authors can be in this day and age. I think the greater frequency of trips in the months before they died was, in truth, a desire to escape the public’s eye and just be together as friends. Indeed, it certainly seemed they were always going on or coming back from some trip of theirs. The last time I saw them was at Mr. Fritz’s retirement party, and even then they spoke of making a grand circuit of the Pacific islands. It truly is a tragedy that, far from the freedom they desired, it was instead a burning tomb they shared.

It happened in the early hours of a chilly November morning. Firemen were called to the Ellison Estate by a housekeeper, only to find the mansion a heap of smoldering embers. The police and firemen were baffled on several points, the greatest concern being finding the two residents—or, as many feared, finding their bodies. Extensive searches found no definite human remains, but the incineration of the house was so totally complete that no one could say for sure that the bodies hadn’t been fully cremated in the inferno. This scenario of total incineration may not be as unlikely as it may first seem, for it is well-known that writers burn faster due to the amount of ink their skin absorbs, leaving no remains to be found.1 Many kept hope alive that Walters and Ellison had not perished in the fire, but weeks turning to months with no sign of the two made that seem increasingly unlikely.

More bafflement came from the fire itself. The cause of the fire, and how it had so quickly and completely consumed the entire house, could not be identified. The house was truly just a pile of ash, with very little evidence left for the police to find. It could’ve been burning all night for all anyone knew, as all the staff had gone home at 9 pm, and the mansion was just far enough from Boston proper to remain unseen from the city. Equally puzzling was how only the house had been burnt without the flames leaping to other parts of the estate. A small miracle, perhaps, but little comfort and even less helpful with explanations. Speculation ran wild, with ideas ranging from faulty wires and lightning strikes to evil spirits and ancient curses. Foul play was investigated, of course, but nothing came of the investigation. In the end, no one could say how the mansion had burnt down, and the mystery may well remain forever unsolved.

Loss is never an easy thing to accept. I sometimes fancy Walters will walk in and hand me a piece for his column, or invite me to another odd party of Ellison’s. Many still hold the hope that they are on some extended trip and will return soon, safe and sound, wholly ignorant of the burning of their house. Still more claim to have seen the pair at some odd bus stop or train station, in the same way my sister would insist Elvis Presley and Jesus Christ took the bus in front of our childhood home each morning. I’ve even heard persistent rumors that the pair were seen boarding a Pacific-board plane, undoubtedly a delusion born of their love of travel. I wish I could allow myself to share in the hope that they are alive, but that hope grows smaller and smaller as time marches on.

As Harry Walters said, people grieve in all sorts of ways. Some of those ways are by denying what, at this point, can only be fact. Some weep for the loss of two of our generation’s most promising talents, others celebrate them and their works. As for me, I choose to grieve by remembering Harry Walters and Peter Ellison for who they were: good men, great authors, and the best of friends.

In memory of Harry Walters and Peter Ellison.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License