The loss of AA Gill's irreplaceable voice feels so abrupt and absolute because he was very much at the top of his game.
When great writers die it is most often after a period of relative silence or obvious attenuation. A series of minor works, lesser in size and ambition.
Shakespeare's The Tempest is an exception. My favourite author, Joseph Conrad, knocked off a handful of shockers before passing on. Gárcia Márquez shuffled off slowly and somewhat disappointingly into the long night. Updike wrote Terrorist.
Meanwhile, Vargas Llosa marries Enrique Iglesias's mum and then turns his attention to griping about celebrity culture and the death of modern civilisation in general. Perhaps we should be grateful that AA was spared the old git phase.