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It's now generally known to Friends and others here and elsewhere that Tom Disch died last week, apparently on Independence Day. He had long been in poor health and had suffered some awful reversals and catastrophes in recent years and felt himself to be facing others. He died "by his own hand" as it is said. He and I had long been friends and in these recent unhappy years had become closer, though we rarely saw each other.
I'm not prepared right now to write at length about Tom, or Tom and me, but I will.
The funeral will be private and for family. A memorial service is being planned probably for September in New York. More on this when more is known.
Quae nunc abibis in loca?... Nec ut solis dabis iocos.
Thank you
Tom's sister, Nancy Disch.
Re: Thank you
Re: Thank you
Re: Thank you
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:(
I'm sorry for the loss of your friend. Ar dheis Dé go raibh a anam.
lament
Thomas Disch
the eternal fun of our new heads
i still remember my delight at first discovering that you and tom were companions. i am glad that two people i am so grateful for were good for each other.
the death of a great writer is such a different sort of turning at the outer edges - the havoc in the hearts truly close i cannot imagine. love to those.
Poor Tom is Dead
Re: Poor Tom is Dead
Poor Tom, Seventh Son, Always knew what's goin on
Ain't a thing that you can hide from Tom
There ain't nothing that you can hide from Tom
Worked for thirty years
Sharin' hopes and fears
Dreamin' of the day
He could turn and say
Poor Tom, work's gone, lazin' out in the noonday sun
Ain't a thing that you can hide from Tom
Ain't nothing that you can hide from Tom
Nine
Tom Disch
I invited him and his partner to visit me in Point Reyes and after his partner died, I invited him to come alone. In our correspondence he even became a little romantic although I could never tell when he was kidding and when he wasn’t. Both in E mails and over the phone he was lots of fun and very funny. He invited me to visit him in New York, he couldn’t come to Point Reyes because he didn’t want to fly. I think he would have been a fish out of water away from New York although he did kid around about taking cruises with me; the last time he wrote he suggested we take a cruise to Antarctica. Some of the prose in his letters was dazzling. That man could write! He was very frugal. He never would buy an up to date computer even after he had sold his papers to Yale for a considerable sum. He described recipes he had made out of left overs which actually sounded very good! We exchanged Netflix recommendations, I read several of his books of criticism, we exchanged poetry. His persona in his letters was very different from the persona in his Endzone blog.
I was stunned and sad to hear that he was dead, and doubly sad that he took his own life...if he did. He had told me that he had diabetes and other physical problems. Oh, Tom, if I had only made that last phone call, written that last letter would it have helped any?
Goodbye brilliant scholar, poet, critic, essayist, novelist. Prolific and talented man. I spent all day rereading your letters. You were still alive to me today.
Re: Tom Disch
He talked of you often to me, including the imaginary romance, in that way he had -- at once sweet/innocent and dark/knowing -- it was almost a trademark.
No: another call, another letter would not have made a difference. He could be amused and intrigued and delighted by his friends and their engagement with him, but how he perceived his life and his fate couldn't be touched. And at bottom: he had the means, and they were easy to use in any moment of despair. Who knows how many times he came close, until that last.
Re: Tom Disch
I'm sorry for your loss.
The romantic in me wants to write a reversal of the Hadrian, - in what warm bright full place do you now emanate? Perhaps it would be a bit disrespectful somehow, or false.
I'm glad he had a friend like you in darkening times.
I reread parts of The Castle of Indolence last night, and was struck by the juxtaposition of his crankiness when speaking in general with his tolerance and ability to find good when speaking of a specific poet.
What I Can See from Here
Ich blicke im Osten auf die Westwand
Eines großen Gebäudes mit vielen Fenstern,
Das etwas entfernt steht. Ich sehe den Sonnenuntergang
Nicht unmittelbar, sondern nur seine Spiegelung
Auf der Fassade dieses Gebäudes.
Wem Manhattan vertraut ist, der wird wissen,
Wie die Abendsonne in den Schlitz
Von irgendeiner Ost-/Weststraße zu gleiten scheint,
Und so werden ihre Strahlen
Durch die canyonähnlichen Straßen geleitet,
Um große Objekte wie diese Wand zu treffen
Und dort ihre Gegenschatten hinzuschmieren,
Den Buchstaben Tau aus leuchtendem Dämmerlicht
Am Ende des Tages. Ich sehe das nun schon
Seit ungefähr vierzig Jahren, aber erst heute Abend
Habe ich begriffen, was ich hier eigentlich sehe:
Die Art, wie Gott versucht, Lebewohl! zu sagen.
(translated by Christopher Ecker)
The Loss
Sorry for your loss, John. Yours and ours.
I can thank you for that? I loved his novels and told him
so. He seemed pleased and mildly surprised. Sad.
Patrick O'Leary
I never knew him personally but I wish I did.
This grief is similar to the the grief thousands felt on the death of heath Ledger, only less public.
Mark from buy to let mortgages