Day-to-day life does a fairly good job of covering up the bigger picture, with its mundane moments building upon each other to create a thick tapestry of denial, or something like it.
The hardest part of grieving is having nothing to say.
I’m afraid that going home will make his absence that much stronger, more biting than it’s already been. I’m afraid that seeing this same sadness on hundreds of faces, rather than five, will make it hurt that much more.
Death is a situation that we’re forced to absorb, and to watch others surrender to. It’s one of the few real facts of life, but its fidelity isn’t sweet, like a recurring rash with no known cure.
At first glance, that question might seem harsh, or the answer obvious: because death is sad, of course, and we admire a lot of them as artists. But I think there’s more to it than that.