A year ago, I lost my father. I don’t mean he was misplaced or that he’s wandering about in a hedge maze or anything – he died. It wasn’t a surprise, he’d been sick for a while. But it was terribly sad. Obviously. In the year since, my family and I have grieved his loss and celebrated his life in a number of different ways. I’ve discovered a sort of atomic half-life of influence he had on me, most surprising of which is just how much of a literary impact he made.