There's a strange, half-imagined grief that takes us over when a famous person dies. They barge their ways into our homes via a million magazine covers and we project our desires on to them. And when they're gone we can demarcate the era and have the collective catharsis of crying together -- for them and for our own private reasons. In terms of image, death is only the beginning -- the launch pad.

Whether it's records, books, or films, death is the finest piece of self-promotion in the marketing arsenal. (Only the canniest operators, like Elton John, realise that they don't have to actually do the dying themselves). Like lemmings, we rush to Amazon to push posthumous products to the top of the charts. What better way to pay your respects than enrichening the estate?

Never was this more the case than with a pair of hard-living divas whose deaths were mourned like no others in 2011 -- Amy Winehouse and Elizabeth Taylor. Like the Hollywood legend, the young Grammy-winning singer had battled with drink and drugs -- but unlike Taylor, Winehouse was to be taken from the world by her vices at a very young age; in July she was found dead in her bed by her bodyguard and the post-mortem later showed alcohol poisoning.

It was the most rock 'n' roll of endings -- a cliche almost -- but none the less tragic for the family and friends of a woman Newsweek called "a perfect storm of sex kitten, raw talent and poor impulse control".

Equally predictably, her back catalogue of recordings was ransacked for new offerings -- the posthumous number one album being the best eulogy the fans could give her.

Taylor, a former child actress who became a bona-fide Hollywood legend, was widely thought in her youth to have narrowly avoided the kind of disaster that felled Winehouse -- the actress fought her own demons over the years.

But in the end, these, along with the diamonds, seven husbands, and humanitarian work, obscured the real legacy of the star whose arresting presence made movies like Cat On a Hot Tin Roof and Who's Afraid Of Virginia Woolf? so memorable.

"An electric, erotic charge vibrates the air between her face and the lens," wrote Camille Paglia. "It is an extrasensory, pagan phenomenon." She died in March of congestive heart failure. When her jewels and personal effects were put up at auction in New York earlier this month, they raised millions of dollars. Signed mementos from, among others, Michael Jackson, were just some of the reminders that she was a legend who will endure.

Much the same could be said about Jane Russell, the voluptuous star of Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, whose sensuous curves embodied the contoured 'sweater girl' look.

Decades before Madonna perfected the trick, Russell used her celebrity to cut through adoption red tape and spirited a little Irish boy -- Tom Waterfield -- back to California, where he was raised by her and her American footballer husband. Almost five decades later he was with her as she passed away.

At the other end of the scale from Taylor, Winehouse and Russell was another kind of legend: a man whose 2011 death provoked displays of joy that some saw as justified and others condemned as unseemly. The killing of Osama bin Laden in May ridded the world of the man who claimed responsibility for the 9/11 atrocity and provided a rare coup for the Obama administration. To his supporters in parts of the Middle East and Pakistan he was a freedom fighter against US hegemony; to millions of Americans he was this generation's Hitler. Suffice it to say they weren't rushing to buy posters of him on Amazon.

In truth, it was a bumper year for dictator deaths. Kim Jong-il? No, in fact it was much worse than that -- Kim Jong dead. Everyone from the Republican presidential candidates to the cast of The Only Way Is Essex weighed in with an anti-tribute to the pint-sized North Korean leader.

Somewhat less opprobrium was left over for another fallen despot -- Muammar Gaddafi -- the Libyan dictator who seemed, from this great distance, to have the soul of a washed-up Seventies pop star. An international terrorist, he had a narcissistic showmanship, which would have been endearing if it hadn't been for all that oppression. His death brought no respite and the Middle East continued to suffer while the West struggled with the multiple spellings of his name.

At the other end of the statesman scale was the man credited with leading the Czech Republic through tumultuous post-Communism beginnings and shaking it out of its Soviet gloom -- Vaclav Havel. The former dissident playwright always regretted the decision to split from Slovakia. Martin Palous -- one of the original signatories of the famous Charter 77, a seminal document that criticised the Communist government -- said of Havel: "He was the man who was able to stage this miracle play. The sacrifice was to cast himself in the main role."

A figure like Bin Laden or Gaddafi aside, speaking ill of the dead is generally taboo. Dizzy eulogies replace sober criticism -- no matter how divisive the public persona. Shockingly to some (but surely not to the dead man himself) a slight loosening of this etiquette was discernible in the obituaries of English writer and journalist Christopher Hitchens. The indictment, which some would have been happy to have written on his gravestone, was that he doggedly cheerled for the Iraq War and, unlike many other writers, refused to admit when he was wrong on the subject.

Some saw his hawkishness and friendliness with the Bush cabal as filling some psychological need, as the first male in his family never to wear a military uniform. Others saw in it the gross irresponsibility of a man who liked to chase around war zones looking for inspiration. The Guardian said his career was "a roller coaster of love and loathing" and his description of Mother Teresa -- " a thieving, fanatical, Albanian dwarf" -- gives some idea of the buttons he was willing to push. Still, there had to be admiration for his consistency -- a committed atheist, there was no deathbed conversion to religion.

By contrast with the reaction to Hitchen's death, the world -- especially on Facebook and Twitter-- went into uncritical eulogy meltdown after the death of the cantankerous and brilliant Apple co-founder, Steve Jobs. They stopped the presses of Time magazine to put his face on the cover and his 2005 commencement address to the students of Stanford University was hailed as the greatest speech of the era.

Jobs gave the world the iPhone and the Macbook Pro. It took his own authorised biography, by Walter Isaacson, to deconstruct the myths of the man and show him in all his flawed glory.

The deconstruction of Garret FitzGerald, who died in May aged 85, went along more conventional lines. That the phrase "aloof academic approach" occurred in the first sentence of the Telegraph's obituary told of how entrenched that idea of the former Taoiseach has become. It was probably as much to do with presentation as anything -- the crumpled, apologetic smile, wild white hair and professorial tones did not endear him to a nation that seemed to prefer inarticulate cute hoorism (and has since, as the Germans themselves say, "received the receipt" for that).

The Guardian piled it on, quoting him as once asking of a particular agreement, "it sounds great in practice, but how will it work in theory?". And yet, as so many of our politicians became mired in financial or sexual scandal, they made Dr FitzGerald look in hindsight like a rather pure soul and one who might well have done a better job than the men who eventually drove his party from power.

They were the men of Fianna Fail, a party that was, with few exceptions, shown the door by the electorate in an historic election result. One man who bucked that trend was to lose his own life just four months later.

As finance minister in the outgoing government, Brian Lenihan took his share of stick -- he will go down in history as the man who sought a bailout for the State. But his integrity and intelligence won him many admirers in his lifetime and the poignancy of his description of sitting at Dublin Airport during last year's snow, with negotiations in Brussels ahead of him and the cold hand of death on his shoulder, will stay with all those who heard it.

The world of British cinema mourned the deaths of two of its legends -- Ken Russell and Pete Postlethwaite. Russell, along with Mike Leigh and Ridley Scott, was among the greatest living British directors and the film world's original enfant terrible. His reputation was sealed with The Devils (1971) -- an orgiastic cornucopia of torture and mass rape -- but it was 1969's Women in Love and its censor-provoking wrestling scene that brought him Oscar nods and commercial clout.

It was a sad, slow decline from there to 2007's Celebrity Big Brother but at that point Russell's legacy was established and, by now on wife number four, there was probably quite a lot of alimony to pay for.

Postlethwaite assuredly did not have matinee idol looks, but his cragginess gave him a versatility enjoyed by few other performers. Long a respected stage and television actor, his breakthrough performance -- especially as far as Irish audiences were concerned -- was his mesmerising turn in Jim Sheridan's In The Name Of The Father (1993), which won him an Oscar nomination (in one of the Academy's sillier decisions, he was robbed by Tommy Lee Jones in The Fugitive). Still, the film was a launchpad and Postlethwaite went on to work with Steven Spielberg and Christopher Nolan.

Versatility as a performer was something that Postlethwaite shared with TP McKenna, the veteran Irish actor who died in February, aged 81. The former chairman of Cavan County Council spent his formative years as a stage actor in Ireland before going on to great success in television series, such as Lovejoy, Miss Marple and Doctor Who.

McKenna got some of his first big roles on the stage at the Abbey and that venerable institution lost its former artistic director, Tomas Mac Anna, in May of this year. A giant of Irish theatre, Mac Anna wrote many plays and directed a Tony-award-winning version of Brendan Behan's The Borstal Boy.

Suicide was much in the news in the latter part of 2011. The story of Kate Fitzgerald, the young public relations consultant who took her life in August, touched the nation. There was controversy about an article by Kate, which talked about her depression, which the Irish Times published posthumously.

While the subject of Kate's death was being discussed in Ireland, the footballer Gary Speed was found hanged at his home in North Wales, causing a wave of shock and grief throughout English football. Speed, who had played for Newcastle among others, and who had guided Wales to international success, had given an interview in which he appeared upbeat and relaxed just a day before his death. Those close to him were stunned by the news.

The world of sports lost Joe Frazier, a boxer whose legendary status was only undercut slightly by the fact that he came out on the losing end in two out of three of his most famous ever fights -- against Muhammad Ali. The third of these -- The Thrilla In Manilla -- is often remembered as the greatest fight of all time.

His great rival used his greater verbal dexterity to mock Frazier, who never forgave the accusation that he was 'an Uncle Tom'. "The words hurt more than the punches," Frazier once said. He died in November of liver cancer; the ailing Ali once again having slightly gotten the better of him.

Ginger McCain, the racehorse trainer, would probably have done better against Ali in the verbal jousting stakes. The notoriously sharp-tongued Englishman established his place in sporting history as the trainer of Red Rum, the only horse to have won the Grand National three times. According to sporting legend, Donald -- 'Ginger' on account of his copper mop -- came upon a horse with dodgy legs and trained him to a place in racing immortality.

After moving his training base in 1990, McCain raced yet another Grand National winner in 2004 and his family's legacy was continued this year as his son trained Ballabrigs to victory in this year's renewal.

Greatness begets greatness seemed to be the lesson and it was true for soccer great Socrates, too -- his younger brother, Rai, won the world cup with Brazil in 2004. It was an honour the elder brother never quite managed but with his clairvoyant passing and devotion to 'joga bonita' -- the beautiful game -- he won hearts all over the world and was a deserving captain of Brazil's 1982 World Cup Team.

Such was his dexterity on the back pass that Pele used to quip that he played better backwards than most players played forwards. And fulfilling the common conception of Brazilian players, he embodied a type of athletic romanticism which some might say has no place in the modern game. "Beauty comes first," he told an English journalist. "Victory is secondary. What matters is joy."

At home, Irish rugby bade sorry farewell to Johnny O'Meara, a gifted scrum-half who earned 22 caps for his country, the last of which was earned against Wales in 1958. His on-pitch partnership with Jackie Kyle became the stuff of sporting legend and ensured the respected Mallow solicitor's place in the pantheon of Irish greats.

No less mourned was 'the man in the cap' -- footballing great Peter McDermott, who passed away in October, aged 92. The man from Meath had the curious distinction of winning two All-Ireland medals with Meath -- in 1949 and 1954 -- and later refereeing two All-Ireland finals. McDermott was an honorary president of the Meath County Board for several years before his passing.

Television lost three of its most famous faces in 2011. Jimmy Savile, Coronation Street actress Betty Driver and Peter Falk, the American actor who played Columbo, all headed for that great green room in the sky this year. All had distinguished careers which, in the public's mind, unfortunately boiled down to a trio of character catchphrases -- "Jim'll Fix It", "Betty's Hot Pot" and Columbo's signature: ". . . just one more thing."

No such reductionism was possible with Patrick Galvin, the acclaimed Cork-born writer and singer who authored the Raggy Boy trilogy and who died in May.

Galvin made some nine albums of music and one of his own songs, James Connolly, was subsequently popularised by Christy Moore. He was also involved in setting up the Poetry Now festival. He had been ill after suffering a stroke in 2003, the same year Song For a Raggy Boy was made into a film starring Aidan Quinn.

In late summer Patricia Redlich died. Though she would have had no problem with being described as the agony columnist of the Sunday Independent, she was, to her legions of readers, and her friends and colleagues so much more -- a sounding board and wellspring of wisdom for dealing with modern life. Her advice, though consistent, clear-sighted and guided by a moral compass, was never less than truly compassionate. She respected her readers and those who wrote to her too much to do anything other than tell the truth as she saw it. She died, after a short illness, at the home she made in Co Waterford with her husband Val.

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Fantasy and science fiction are not genres one readily associates with Irish writing but, while Ann McCaffrey was born in America, she made her home in Co Wicklow, where she named her home Dragonhold, because, she said, it had been paid for by dragons. Her books featuring the mythical beasts were a huge success and won her international renown. She died on November 21.

McCaffrey featured women and children heavily in her work because, she said, they were rarely used as protagonists in science fiction books.

In a way, that's what the obituary column in a newspaper is -- the protagonists of death that we can agree upon. Column inches don't make one life worth more than the next, however. Most of us will make do with a notice in a paper, placed there by the people who feel the empty chairs most keenly of all.

The stars may fall but to their mortal graves when the constellations in our own skies darken, Christmas and the New Year are never the same.

Originally published in