(no subject)

I'm too baffled and angry to eulogize. Language does collapse at a certain point, the map and the territory too intertwined. I feel certain he'd have something interesting to say about how, living in a country that embraces such a culture of celebrity, we still have no codified ability to mourn the death of someone we don't know, even when that someone has been so important to us. But I can at least say goodbye.

I'm sorry you were in so much pain.

I'm sad that the courage and compassion of your writing couldn't sustain you the way they've sustained me.

I'm angry. I feel guilty for being angry, but there it is. I feel like I've been peddled a lie. All the hope, and wisdom, and nourishment that I've accepted from your work (from you, because wasn't that the agreement, that no matter how cerebral you got you'd always stay human and involved behind the language? should I not have trusted a metafictionist?) look so shabby to me today and I hate you a little for making them that way.

I'm chagrined. All your fictional suicides are so ridiculous, I figured your scorn would keep you safe. But I should have known better than that.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry you were in so much pain.