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I heard last night that the poet Adrian Rawlins died last Wednesday. His funeral is today. He had been ill for the past couple of years, battling cancer. I was told that on Wednesday he "just gave up", but I believe he didn't die alone. I am saddened by his death, and I am certain the many people who knew him in Melbourne and Sydney will be too. Adrian had the capacity to be one of the most annoying people I have ever met, but he had some remarkable qualities: he was a genuine enthusiast, a naif who devoted his life to art wholeheartedly and without reserve; and he did so from a life in which he endured both loneliness and poverty. There was an admirable and rare generosity in that. Right up to his death was stubbornly attending readings, plays and films. He went to practically every event in Melbourne over the past four decades, and had an encyclopaedic knowledge of the culture from his involvement since the 1950s, which has of course died with him. He faced his illness with remarkable courage, and refused to be defeated by it until the end. I last saw him barely a month ago, and although at the time I could see he was dying, he was as curious, as enthusiastic, as full of life, as he had ever been. Despite knowing of his illness, the news of his death was a shock. Adrian's philosophy was that life was about "sharing being". There was something larger than life about him, and the world is a smaller and more colourless place without him. Vale Adrian. I hope the afterlife is everything you believed. Alison Alison Croggon Home page http://users.bigpond.com/acroggon/ Masthead http://au.geocities.com/masthead_2/