For over two decades, I had the privilege of working with an editor whose touch was both light and transformative. His feedback arrived not as a rewrite, but as a series of thoughtful queries and suggestions, penciled respectfully in the margins. He possessed a rare understanding of a writer’s intent. Often, a simple question mark in one line would illuminate weaknesses elsewhere, sending me back to the page with renewed clarity. That intuitive guidance was a gift for which I remain profoundly grateful.
His correspondence was always a boost—kind, encouraging, and unfailingly enthusiastic, invariably signed off with his characteristic, hurried well-wishes.
As a poet whose work might be described as steadfast rather than trendy, I also owe him a deep debt. As a publisher, he provided not just a platform, but consistent care and unwavering support for the work itself.
Yet there was another, more competitive side to this thoughtful man. On the cricket field, captaining his university staff team, his patience had its limits. I recall one match, after a series of overly cautious defensive shots, his voice ringing out from the boundary with blunt, sporting pragmatism: if the runs weren’t coming, it was time to make way for someone who could find them. It was a stark, bracing contrast to the gentle editor in the study, yet equally honest in its own arena.