rest in peace, my friend

Jeffrey Schneier, known to most of us as wouldprefernot2, died tonight.

He was one of the first people I encountered in the strange and small universe we call LJ, a rather quirky and quiet sort of person who professed a level of cynical detachment, beneath which was the sort of compassion that is so lacking in this world. It's odd to know someone entirely through his words, but in some ways I can't think of a better way to know someone for whom words are as vital as oxygen. Still, I wish I could have met him. I'm certain we would have been good friends. I'd have liked to talk with him about the humanist dimensions of Ulysses and see if I could make him crack a smile. He was wise and kind and witty. (My current favourite quote – September 12, 2001, which was before I met him: "Well, I guess we can't call it the Pentagon any more. Quadrilateral, maybe.")

There's not much point in expressing how unfair this is, although at some point I'll rage against a medical system that puts profits before human life, at a world in which a 37-year-old man could die almost without warning. Now I can only grieve and try to be grateful that for whatever time, in whatever capacity, this wonderful person existed and touched my life and the lives of so many others. As I commented to microbie, we are all better people for having known him. I often get a sense of what someone's voice might sound like, not having heard it, from the way he or she writes. I can almost hear his voice when he wrote (as he often did): "Be well, Miss Neg." (This is, by the way, the man who while still in the hospital managed to drop me a note when he read about my stepdad's diagnosis.)

Tonight, my thoughts are with his family and friends, and especially to microbie, who has been incredibly strong in the face of unbearable tragedy. I'll mention again dobrovolets' tribute.

I was reading Bartleby the Scrivener tonight, and saw why our Bartleby had so identified with the character. He exemplified a certain type of dignity and reserve, resistance that is not carried out with guns or bombs but with calm refusal: I would prefer not to.

Goodbye, Bartleby. I'll miss you.

"The report was this: that Bartleby had been a subordinate clerk in the Dead Letter Office at Washington, from which he had been suddenly removed by a change in the administration. When I think over this rumor, I cannot adequately express the emotions which seize me. Dead letters! does it not sound like dead men? Conceive a man by nature and misfortune prone to a pallid hopelessness, can any business seem more fitted to heighten it than that of continually handling these dead letters and assorting them for the flames? For by the cart-load they are annually burned. Sometimes from out the folded paper the pale clerk takes a ring:—the finger it was meant for, perhaps, moulders in the grave; a bank-note sent in swiftest charity:—he whom it would relieve, nor eats nor hungers any more; pardon for those who died despairing; hope for those who died unhoping; good tidings for those who died stifled by unrelieved calamities. On errands of life, these letters speed to death.

Ah Bartleby! Ah humanity!" -- Herman Melville, Bartleby, the Scrivener, 1853.

rest in peace, my friend

Jeffrey Schneier, known to most of us as wouldprefernot2, died tonight.

He was one of the first people I encountered in the strange and small universe we call LJ, a rather quirky and quiet sort of person who professed a level of cynical detachment, beneath which was the sort of compassion that is so lacking in this world. It's odd to know someone entirely through his words, but in some ways I can't think of a better way to know someone for whom words are as vital as oxygen. Still, I wish I could have met him. I'm certain we would have been good friends. I'd have liked to talk with him about the humanist dimensions of Ulysses and see if I could make him crack a smile. He was wise and kind and witty. (My current favourite quote – September 12, 2001, which was before I met him: "Well, I guess we can't call it the Pentagon any more. Quadrilateral, maybe.")

There's not much point in expressing how unfair this is, although at some point I'll rage against a medical system that puts profits before human life, at a world in which a 37-year-old man could die almost without warning. Now I can only grieve and try to be grateful that for whatever time, in whatever capacity, this wonderful person existed and touched my life and the lives of so many others. As I commented to microbie, we are all better people for having known him. I often get a sense of what someone's voice might sound like, not having heard it, from the way he or she writes. I can almost hear his voice when he wrote (as he often did): "Be well, Miss Neg." (This is, by the way, the man who while still in the hospital managed to drop me a note when he read about my stepdad's diagnosis.)

Tonight, my thoughts are with his family and friends, and especially to microbie, who has been incredibly strong in the face of unbearable tragedy. I'll mention again dobrovolets' tribute.

I was reading Bartleby the Scrivener tonight, and saw why our Bartleby had so identified with the character. He exemplified a certain type of dignity and reserve, resistance that is not carried out with guns or bombs but with calm refusal: I would prefer not to.

Goodbye, Bartleby. I'll miss you.

"The report was this: that Bartleby had been a subordinate clerk in the Dead Letter Office at Washington, from which he had been suddenly removed by a change in the administration. When I think over this rumor, I cannot adequately express the emotions which seize me. Dead letters! does it not sound like dead men? Conceive a man by nature and misfortune prone to a pallid hopelessness, can any business seem more fitted to heighten it than that of continually handling these dead letters and assorting them for the flames? For by the cart-load they are annually burned. Sometimes from out the folded paper the pale clerk takes a ring:—the finger it was meant for, perhaps, moulders in the grave; a bank-note sent in swiftest charity:—he whom it would relieve, nor eats nor hungers any more; pardon for those who died despairing; hope for those who died unhoping; good tidings for those who died stifled by unrelieved calamities. On errands of life, these letters speed to death.

Ah Bartleby! Ah humanity!" -- Herman Melville, Bartleby, the Scrivener, 1853.

What are you reading?

Said purejuice: "could you start a wouldprefernot2 book club? someone above says he was reading ulysses for the centenary of bloomsday. we could do that."

So.

deadlettroffice

Suggestions, contributions, book recommendations, volunteers to moderate, etc. are most welcome.

What are you reading?

Said purejuice: "could you start a wouldprefernot2 book club? someone above says he was reading ulysses for the centenary of bloomsday. we could do that."

So.

deadlettroffice

Suggestions, contributions, book recommendations, volunteers to moderate, etc. are most welcome.