I heard last night. For some reason I couldn't get Auden's "In Memory of WB Yeats" out of my head, though when I pulled down the collected Auden and actually looked at the poem, it seems to me that what I was actually had in mind was some sort of personal mash-up of that poem with Auden's "Musee des Beaux Arts".
I was aware that Judt was dying, of course, but I was not aware that he was about to die. And for some reason it felt especially tragic that a great mind should lose its long battle when so many of those who admired him were doing nothing in particular, and not even aware that anything more particular might be going on.
Obviously, we were not politically sympatico, but I nevertheless had enormous respect for the man's writing; at his worst, he was a mighty foe.
We want to hear what you think about this article. Submit a letter to the editor or write to firstname.lastname@example.org.