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289 pages, Kindle Edition
First published April 15, 2025
In one of the last letters that my father wrote to my mother before she moved out to Berkeley to join him, before they married, he quoted a series of passages from Proust on the theme of death. Even now, thinking back on that time, trying to imagine it, it seems strange to me that he'd choose to conclude what had otherwise been a fairly romantic two-year correspondence on such an ominous note ……… There was something unusually grave and foreboding about it, but also strangely prescient, and though I can't remember all of the passages he quoted, there was one I wrote down in my journal and that I still return to from time to time, especially when I'm feeling low:
People do not die for us immediately, but remain bathed in a sort of aura of life which bears no relation to true immortality but through which they continue to occupy our thoughts in the same way as when they were alive. It is as though they were traveling abroad.
This idea of "traveling abroad," of death being a kind of travel, and of the dead not really dying for us immediately, these are things that I often thought about when I thought about my mother, or Chau, or other people in my life that I'd lost, and fora long time they were concepts I applied to my father when I thought about him, when I believed, as I did for a long time, he was dead.
“ The true paradises are the paradises we have lost.”

