I planned to return to Cornflake Victorians this afternoon—to talk about the upcoming release of my first book and, of course, to delve into the broad topics that inspired me to begin this newsletter in the first place.
But then I saw the news.
Many of us know that Kobe Bryant is a complicated figure. But the nuances of this particular tragedy are not for me to discuss. I grieve for his wife and children. I especially grieve for his thirteen-year-old daughter, Gianna, who died alongside of Bryant, together with her teammate and her teammate’s parent. It is startling and humbling—the ease with which a life can end.
Mourning has become familiar to me in the last few years. Mom died two years ago in November, and in early December, her father, my Pop Pop, died after a week of health complications. Loss must always be felt; I am learning that. It does not await our readiness.
So, what is most appropriate, I think, is to pause yet again, briefly, and leave you with a poem that I return to whenever the world is especially weighted with sadness.
Funeral Blues, by W.H. Auden
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone.
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling in the sky the message He is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever, I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
Here is a moving recitation of the poem, which I used to play for my students when I taught Auden. It’s from the original Four Weddings and a Funeral.
Please be well.
In muchness,
Rachel