Sometimes you read a really great piece of writing on the internet and you don’t want to lose it. I remember reading this piece by David Sedaris about his sister’s suicide when it was published by the New Yorker back in 2013, and it deeply resonated with me. I’ve been following his work for years, he was one of the first writers that I discovered and loved in my teenage days. David Sedaris is a genre onto himself; he writes confessional-comedic-non-fiction essays like nobody else can. Back in January of 2014, I saw him speak live in front of packed theatre in Melbourne. It’s a strange phenomenon when you meet your cultural icons face to face and realise that they live and breathe and walk within the same universe as you. With David Sedaris, because his writing is explicitly autobiographic, as a reader you are given the illusion of knowing him, of knowing his life experiences intimately, but seeing him in person you realise that David Sedaris, the writer behind the words, is only one facet of David Sedaris, the human individual. The illusion of intimacy is precisely that, an illusion.
He didn’t speak about his sister’s suicide.