I read Mortality by Christopher Hitchens yesterday.
His powerful last book, written as he died of cancer.
Anne and I last night discussed how sorry we felt for his wife. Not just that she had lost her husband, but that she had to write the afterword in the book.
Who wants to follow the genius writing of their husband with their own pedestrian prose?
For the opposite reason I hope Anne never has to write an epilog to my own writings. She's a way better writer than me.
No doubt my book would be called Futility - the 100 ways I get angry waiting in line at Starbucks.