poetbabble:

And then her email closes with a reminder of their first meeting, the hope of other fates. “You know, I still,” she suggests, “have a different ending (for him, for me): it’s the one where he controls his own damn poignancy, and also kisses me goodnight…”

The very public appropriation of the ultimate private act made it less possible for her to cope with it. He was everywhere she looked. She still avoids Google: “What do you do when your husband’s autopsy report is on the internet and is deemed a subject worthy of fucking literary criticism?”

The only other time she has talked to a newspaper was at the opening of her last art show when she spoke to a journalist from the New York Times. “I did it on the basis that her story would not include the words “hanging” or “discovered body,” she says now. “I’m an idiot, of course they did all that. I know journalism is journalism and maybe people want to read that I discovered the body over and over again, but that doesn’t define David or his work. It all turns him into a celebrity writer dude, which I think would have made him wince, the good part of him. It has defined me too, and I’m really struggling with that.”

(via awritersruminations)