The Kingdom Crumbles

“Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies” is a line, from the poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay, that has stuck in my mind ever since I first read it, when I was in fact a child and nobody died. Of course people did die, but they were either very old or died unusual deaths, died while rafting on the Stanislaus or loading a shotgun or doing 95 drunk: death was construed as either a “blessing” or an exceptional case, the dramatic instance on which someone else’s (never our own) story turned. Illness, in that kingdom where I and most people I knew lingered long past childhood, proved self-limiting. Fever of unknown etiology signaled only the indulgence of a week in bed. Chest pains, investigated, revealed hypochondria.

As time passed it occurred to many of us that our benign experience was less than general, that we had been to date blessed or charmed or plain lucky, players on a good roll, but by that time we were busy: caught up in days that seemed too full, too various, too crowded with friends and obligations and children, dinner parties and deadlines, commitments and overcommitments. “You can’t imagine how it is when everyone you know is gone,” someone I knew who was old would say to me, and I would nod, uncomprehending, yes I can, I can imagine; would even think, God forgive me, that there must be a certain peace in outliving all debts and claims, in being known to no one, floating free. I believed that days would be too full forever, too crowded with friends there was no time to see. I believed, by way of contemplating the future, that we would all be around for one another’s funerals. I was wrong. I had failed to imagine, I had not understood.

Joan Didion
‘After Henry’

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Tripping Over His Own Tongue

So I’ve got a brief essay on David Foster Wallace in the latest issue of Kill Your Darlings — not the digital KYD this time; the formerly arboreal version — which is now in stock at a bunch of more or less independent bookstores in Australia and which is also available for purchase online. I hope my contribution achieves something close to what I wanted it to achieve, although in this instance it’s possible that my eyes were bigger than my stomach. I tried to contest the critical reception of The Pale King in the shadow of Wallace’s death and to provide an overview of Wallace’s body of work, and I tried to articulate some sense of what Wallace sought to achieve in everything he wrote — the subjects attracted his interest; the complications he sensed in the process of having his interest attracted; and the ways in which his writings variously honour, bemoan, and revel in those complications — all within arm’s reach of only 2,000 words. Continue reading Tripping Over His Own Tongue