Nicole Krauss's The History of Love ends with an obituary of Leo Gursky written by himself. I reread it today and was incredibly moved. Leo's life of solitude makes me sad. He knew how to love so deeply. And even though he was a writer, he could not communicate when it mattered the most. And I cannot help but love him.
THE DEATH OF LEOPOLD GURSKY
Leopold Gursky started dying on August 18, 1920.
He died learning to walk.
He died standing at the blackboard.
And once, also, carrying a heavy tray.
He died practicing a new way to sign his name.
Opening a window.
He died alone, because he was too embarrassed to phone anyone.
Or he died thinking about Alma.
Or when he chose not to.
Really, there isn't much to say.
He was a great writer.
He fell in love.
It was his life.
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With one heart in Burma and a few others in America, this daily sketchboat will sail across that vast, interminable expanse of ocean to bring us happy friends together again.
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1 comment:
that last stanza gets me every single time. i was talking in church today and somehow got to rambling on and on about love. about its simultaneously counter-intuitive and totally intuitive. like, it's so hard to love and it seems like the most impossible thing, but at the end of the day i think wanting to love is the impulse that gets me through. i love what alexie sherman said--something to the effect that most people would much rather jump into bed and do tender things to one another than be brutal or violent or cruel. it's a hard thing to make yourself vulnerable (ps, if you guys haven't read amanda's post on her blog, do it. it is lovely and true) but it is what allows us and teaches us to love.
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