“It’s inapt to mourn someone in public, at least not in some ugly, ostentatious, hackneyed eulogy,” she said.
“What about in some dialectic novel of your style?” I am never good at “writing”, as in the really creative form of fictional writing like Harry Potter, or Kafka’s Metamorphosis.
Yes, I have aced all forms of argumentative writings in high school and even once considered myself quite good at the craft. But no, that’s not “writing”.
“At least not the usual writing.” I came to that sober conclusion once I attended a local writer’s forum filled with eager native English-speaker and would-be-Murakami sharing their works. That’s when I knew the usual form native speaker writes in.
“I’ve told you,” nodding in her signature mischievous smile.
“I’ll write you one of those.”
“But honey, you’re so terrible at it.”
We laughed.
“Wasn’t she only 28 or sth?”
“Who?”
“Edie.”
“Edie who?”
We laughed.
That was allegedly what Warhol said when he learnt that she’d passed. She was 28.
“Well, you’re always the better person.”
––– In loving memory of the living Edie Sedgwick of our time.
紀念你為人如此風趣。
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