Deborah Garrison, Mr. Wright’s longtime editor at Knopf, said in a statement: “Franz wrote fearlessly about mental illness, addiction and loneliness, as well as about faith and the unending beauty of his world, no matter how broken; he never wrote a line that wasn’t fiercely important to him, musical, as witty as it was deadly serious. Franz lived for poetry — at times it seemed it kept him alive — and he managed to write poems in which the choice to live feels continually renewed, not just an urgent daily requirement for the poet but a call to arms that includes every single reader.”
In announcing Mr. Wright’s death, Knopf posted his poem “Crumpled-Up Note Blowing Away”:
Were no one
here to witness it,
could the sun be
said to shine? Clearly,
you pedantic fool.
But I’ve said all that
I had to say.
I signed my name.
It’s death’s move.
It can have mine, too.
It’s a perfect June morning,
and I just turned eighteen;
I can’t even believe
what I feel like today.
Here am I, Lord,
sitting on a suitcase,
waiting for my train.
The sun is shining.
I’m never coming back.
When I think of Franz, all I can do is try to comprehend what it would be like to be the son of a Pulitzer Prize winning poet (James Wright) and how much pressure I would feel as a son if I wanted to be a poet myself. Despite all of his problems, Franz accomplished the impossible and won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 2004.
Rest in piece, you fantastic man.
Yet here we are. The fact is, on our current trajectory, in the absence of substantial new climate policy, we are heading for up to 4°C and maybe higher by the end of the century. That will be, on any clear reading of the available evidence, catastrophic. We are headed for disaster — slowly, yes, but surely.
Even as many climate experts are now arguing that 2°C is an inadequate target, that it already represents unacceptable harms, we are facing a situation in which limiting temperature even to 3°C requires heroic policy and technology changes (or some very, very good news about climate sensitivity).
And yet ... the world doesn't appear to be ending; there's no big, visible threat. Climate change moves so slowly that its pace is evident primarily through graphs and statistics. It rarely rises above the background noise.
Remember that episode of in season 3 of the Newsroom, where Will McAvoy interviewed a climate change expert and humanity, it turns out, is already doomed? This is almost like that.
I don't talk about my wife much. I'm not sure why that is, considering that if I could package her up in to a book or a television show, she would make millions.
She's that funny. That smart. And just a teeny bit tempered due to her "Mexi-rican" genetics, but I'm going to be honest, her temper just makes me laugh most of the time.
She says the craziest things over breakfast. For example:
"Look at me. I have a sweater, jacket and scarf to keep me warm. That girl (pointing to a blond who looked like she had just finished working out) is in a halter top and Lulu Lemon shorts. It must be her hotness that keeps her warm."
Or this gem:
When she's gone for work or whatever, I revert to horrible patterns pretty fast. It's only because of her that I don't smoke cigars every day and exercise regularly and go to bed at a decent hour. If left to my own devices, none of these things would happen.
More importantly, she's the light that keeps me hopeful that I can be better. Do better. Think better. The reason I make any attempt at all to be a capable and successful human being. I'm not sure I would make these attempts of my own accord. My will can be, more often than not, compromised by depression or hopelessness or anger, usually triggered by the goddamned news.
I don't tell her enough that I love her and that I'm thankful for her and that I would be lost, desperately lost, without her. That I believe her to be beautiful and hilarious and ridiculously intelligent.
That I don't deserve her.
That I never have.
That I'm ridiculously thankful for her fire and her brown eyes and the comfort of her hands when she touches my face.