Shelby Foote died on Monday night (6/27). The Homeric narrator who penned the account (often lyrical) of the American Illiad, the "crossroad of our being" is no longer with us. That voice may not be heard again in this world.
He drank bourbon outside, under magnolia shade, and scotch indoors by his dog. He wrote, not on keyboard, but in script, with a fountain pen. With a pipe, wisps curling away into the air of the old, genteel South.
He read Gibbon and Proust, and we'll smile at that and allow for eccentricities. What mattered more is that he didn't write like some petulant, gusty and faddish sociologist -- the kind who suck all the story out of history and leave only the hiss.
God bless this old epic bard, and hopefully now he can go talk to his old friend Walker. They'll complain about Leviathan, and laugh about Pickett's hare.