I’ve finished another book about dying. That’s not to say that each one I read doesn’t have merit or that the individual story isn’t moving and real, but there is, nevertheless, a layering of that sense of disquiet, of fear and of sorrow. Layers of it. This particular layer was Jenny Diski’s. I’ve read it before but that was quite some time ago. The end of it is abrupt (though it is followed by two afterwords by the Poet and the Daughter). She died in 2016. I do a quick scan of my internal calendar of years. Where was I living then? Did I read it in the paper? Did I stop a moment and mourn? I’ve always loved her writing, though what her daughter refers to as her ‘fury’ has also always unsettled me. I often think about whether she would’ve liked me. Not that it matters. But somehow it does. Rest in peace.
