Perfection Wasted
by John Updike
And another regrettable thing about death
is the ceasing of your own brand of magic,
which took a whole life to develop and market —
the quips, the witticisms, the slant
adjusted to a few, those loved ones nearest
the lip of the stage, their soft faces blanched
in the footlight glow, their laughter close to tears,
their warm pooled breath in and out with your heartbeat,
their response and your performance twinned.
The jokes over the phone. The memories packed
in the rapid-access file. The whole act.
Who will do it again? That’s it: no one;
imitators and descendants aren’t the same.
– 1990
Thank you to all those who have shared and continue to share your magic with me and have allowed me to share my own with you. That subtle, easily missed perfection will never be wasted. Not on me, not on us.
Writer
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2 comments:
dragonfly,
The very last email you sent ended, “This concludes our "friendship"…I have a few precious memories that I wish to remain so and I feel further interaction with you at this point will tarnish them…goodbye” [incidentally, reversing your take half a day earlier].
I let it (and you) go. Frankly, as every other email was a further detailing of my faults as you see them (something I consciously did NOT do to you, as I feel it’s pointless and destructive, and you don’t believe you have faults anyway), you had become such a toxic influence that I’d had enough. You don’t want the olive branch. OK.
Then two weeks later, you respond to this post with “Thanks for sharing your magic with me. It will always be remembered with love~. df.” I shook my head, but let it drop. Whatever. Apparently, one way communication is still fine.
Another week passes, and you make a point to stop by to delete the same comment.
You wanted to go. So go.
Enough.
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