The Panoptiblog

Megan McArdle writes today of her sadness having learned that Dick Francis died last week, which was news to me. I have similar feelings about his mystery novels, mostly because my mother read them when I was young and starting to venture into the world of adult literature. As is typical, I suppose, for those of us who are lucky enough (in my view) to have parents who read, my early tastes were shaped by what was already being read in my house. Isaac Asimov is the name that first comes to mind when I reflect on those nights sitting in bed reading, but Francis’ horse-themed mysteries are a close second. Break In was the first I read, I believe, followed by Bolt, both stories revolving around Kit Fielding, a champion jockey who finds himself at or near the center of intrigue.

Unlike McArdle, I have never revisited Francis’ books as an adult, so I’ve no idea what I would think of his work now. Nor did I remember the more interesting aspects of his life before writing, if I ever knew.

“I never really decided to be a writer,” he wrote in his autobiography, “The Sport of Queens,” “I just sort of drifted into it.” Before he turned to writing, Mr. Francis was already a celebrity in British sporting circles. Named champion jockey of the 1953-54 racing season by the British National Hunt after winning more than 350 races, he was retained as jockey to the queen mother for four seasons and raced eight times in the Grand National Steeplechase.

Nor was I aware that Francis’ wife, Mary, who died in 2000, had been a kind of writing partner for him (and perhaps more than that, according to some).

In any case, I find myself feeling the same kind of pang on reading this news that I did when I read of Dr. Suess’ passing. It’s not so much that you feel that you lost someone you knew; more that it reminds you of past times now gone.