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Who says investigative journalism is dead?
A Slate journalist got curious about why John M. Ford's books were all out of print. The science fiction community said it was because his family held the copyright and had deliberately buried them. The journalist got in touch with the family, and in doing so, not only helped arrange for the books to get back in print, but also located another person who had apparently dropped off the face of the Earth and was, at least by some, presumed dead.
The Disappearance of John M. Ford
Against Entropy
The worm drives helically through the wood
And does not know the dust left in the bore
Once made the table integral and good;
And suddenly the crystal hits the floor.
Electrons find their paths in subtle ways,
A massless eddy in a trail of smoke;
The names of lovers, light of other days—
Perhaps you will not miss them. That’s the joke.
The universe winds down. That’s how it’s made.
But memory is everything to lose;
Although some of the colors have to fade,
Do not believe you’ll get the chance to choose.
Regret, by definition, comes too late;
Say what you mean. Bear witness. Iterate.
—John M. Ford
A Slate journalist got curious about why John M. Ford's books were all out of print. The science fiction community said it was because his family held the copyright and had deliberately buried them. The journalist got in touch with the family, and in doing so, not only helped arrange for the books to get back in print, but also located another person who had apparently dropped off the face of the Earth and was, at least by some, presumed dead.
The Disappearance of John M. Ford
Against Entropy
The worm drives helically through the wood
And does not know the dust left in the bore
Once made the table integral and good;
And suddenly the crystal hits the floor.
Electrons find their paths in subtle ways,
A massless eddy in a trail of smoke;
The names of lovers, light of other days—
Perhaps you will not miss them. That’s the joke.
The universe winds down. That’s how it’s made.
But memory is everything to lose;
Although some of the colors have to fade,
Do not believe you’ll get the chance to choose.
Regret, by definition, comes too late;
Say what you mean. Bear witness. Iterate.
—John M. Ford