A.A. Gill is Away

by sunil on December 11, 2016

All he does is lung cancer. This is his river, tumours his trout.

~A.A. Gill writing about his Consultant Oncologist, December 2016

The Idea that a death is tragic has been desensitised by the post-modern media to an extent that if you ask any 30 year old what is the meaning of tragic she simply is unable to come up with a coherent response. Death of an old and frail songwriters deep in the winter of their lives is not tragic, death of people well out of their public years regardless of their past achievements is not tragic, death of autocrat populist first citizens of states shrouded in dense layers of secrecy is not tragic. Regardless, for close people around, all deaths are tragic. But all deaths are certain.  The real tragedy of a death is when a promise or a potential is cut short and robbed of its realisation . In that sense, if you have read  A.A. Gill, (even if you haven’t, just read the last column written a week before his death);  one Sunday morning you wake up having to accept the fact that the pen – at a ripe age and time do so – that made these incisive observations will do no more, especially in an increasingly complex world that needed its words now more than ever.

That, dear friends, is tragedy.




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