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MONDAY, 17 APRIL, 2000, PHILADELPHIA |
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Some years ago in San Francisco, I picked up a newspaper and saw a picture of an old, thin man in ripped blue jeans, ratty college sweatshirt and long grey beard. He was sitting on a huge oak desk, books and papers piled all around him in great towers. Bookcases in the background showed inumerable stacks of sets and tomes. French windows gave way to a lovely view of a sprawling, well-landscaped estate. “That’s me!” I pointed to the picture. “That’s what I want to be when I’m old!” I then looked at the caption and wasn’t too surprised to find that it was Edward Gorey, enjoying an afternoon at his Cape Cod estate. Edward Gorey died Saturday. Don’t shoot the messenger. Heart attack. 75. This is depressing. The death of an icon one holds in esteem is so often felt personally, so condolences are in order. Another genius passing is a loss to everyone as well. Remember, most of the Existentialists believed that only through art, the truly creative endeavors, could one attain immortality. I like that part of the philosophy especially. So, here’s to another genius about whom I can say, “I feel privileged to have been born during his lifetime.”Yah, that. What he said, there. I hereby propose a toast — a vigil — if you’re reading this on Monday evening, please have a drink and toast to the late, great, inimitable Mssr. Gorey who demonstrated impeccable taste in everything he did, except for dying, which was rude and brash and lacks his usual subtlety. The damn bastard. 
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