Every so often I’ll find myself shaking my head and sometimes even shuddering at the terrible, awful finality of bullets and disease. Some people have given up the spirit long before the final chapter, but others are generators of such verve and beauty and brilliance that the word “tragic” isn’t enough when finality intervenes. When I think of the crackling, incandescent spirit of John Lennon, and how all of that was obliterated in a matter of minutes on the evening of 12.8.80…words fail.
