Peter Schjeldahl (Photo by Gilbert King) |
Tuesday, December 17, 2019
Peter Schjeldahl's "The Art of Dying"
Yesterday, visiting newyorker.com, I was shocked to encounter Peter Schjeldahl’s “The Art of Dying.” “Lung cancer, rampant” is its first line. Schjeldahl is one of my heroes. He’s created one of the most beautiful writing styles I’ve ever read. Now he’s dying, and he’s writing about it. I didn’t read the piece closely; I merely skimmed it. I want to wait for the print version, so I can immerse myself in it. But the news of his dying shakes me. The New Yorker won't be the same without him. The world won’t be the same without him. All the more reason to treasure every word he’s written, including his new piece. How will he adjust his exquisite, sensuous style to deal with … death?
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