An artist dying in
1979. Can you imagine him living in the 80s? Can you imagine him living now?
Christ, can you imagine him living one
day longer? In retrospect, can you do that? Andrei Tarkovsky making films in the 90s, Christopher Hitchens twittering, David Foster Wallace writing a novel in 2015? This is oddly unthinkable.
Same could be said for many
people, granted, but it’s especially true for people of art. In a cruel and
fateful way, an artist lives for as long as he is supposed to. And while that
may sound desperate or possibly even religious, this is hardly a bad thing. It
means eternity is
constrained
by time. And that’s a nice thought.
