In April this year, Iain Banks announced that he had inoperable cancer. At the time I was reading what became his last Culture novel, "The Hydrogen Sonata". Banks died shortly afterwards in June.
I came across this passage in "The Hydrogen Sonata" which struck me as poignant:
Living either never has any point, or is always its own point; being a naturally cheery soul, I lean towards the latter. However, just having done more of it than someone else doesn't really make much difference.
Much belated RIP, Iain Banks.