At wood s lot a reference to an old online interview with W.G. Sebald. What an unexpected treat this was.
The entire interview was classic, wonderful Sebald, but I particularly liked what he had to say at the end of the interview:
Certainly, my own life experience is that when I thought I had things sorted and I was in control, something happened that completely undid everything I had wanted to do. And so it goes on. The illusion that I had some control over my life went up to about my thirty-fifth birthday. Then it stopped. Now I’m out of control.
Sebald died in a car accident not longer after that. I can’t help thinking he would laugh at the coincidence between what he said and his own death. Yes, he would laugh.
I deeply regret that Sebald died so young. I selfishly wish he had lived to 100, writing every single day. I cannot pick up one of his books without finding myself caught up, again, in the ribbon of words he pulls gently behind him. I guess this makes him one of the lucky ones: those who manage to create something of such unique and enduring beauty that it lasts five minutes beyond his death.
