No one is dying to read my books, though a few have died to avoid reading them. I sent Jonathan Spence an advance copy of my first novel, in the hope that he would contribute a cover blurb, but I didn’t hear back from him, and I learned later that he was ill. Soon he died.
I asked John Barth to blurb my second novel, so he died.
My high school English teacher was someone who I was sure would devour what his star pupil had written, but he put off reading Southern Rain, due to its foreign setting. I assured him of the Americanness of its theme, yet he too breathed his last, before I could bring him around.
Meet Me at the RASCAL I dedicated to my father, but (in a new twist) he went blind around the time it was published. My mother promised to read it to him, at which he passed.
Yellow Crane in the Rain 