RIP David Rakoff 1964—2012


David Rakoff wasn’t merely a talented essayist, he was a sweet, funny, astonishingly pleasant guy and I’m sorry he’s dead, though it comes as no surprise to anyone, least of all him. If you haven’t yet read Don’t Get Too Comfortable or Half Empty, I envy you those first readings. I interviewed him once. He made an impression, obviously.

One of the funniest sections in the book [Half Empty] is your takedown of Rent, a musical that a lot of people love.

Yeah, there’s a sort of romantic notion of the artist [in that show] that doesn’t seem to involve doing any work. Far more than the Rent takedown, though, I wanted to capture what it takes to be creative, and how that feels. It’s typically the notion of sitting and tolerating oneself long enough to turn out a first draft that necessarily has to be bad, and how different that is from most other tasks, which get easier as one gets older. Turning into the perceived media representation of an artist is really the dessert that comes after years of eating vegetables.

You talk about some of the weirdest, worst aspects of being in New York in that same essay, but you really seem to love it here, too. Why is it that people who lived through the “Taxi Driver” years seem to be so attached to New York City?

The day I arrived here at age 17 I felt like this was my home, although it took many years before it actually was my home. The city seems less unique than it once was – but everywhere seems less unique than it once was, and part of that is the velocity of the information.

How do you mean?

Well, there’s that old apocryphal story of the guy who comes to a small town and discovers all these amazing antiques in a back yard. Now everyone knows the value of everything. [pause] This makes it sound like all I care about is traveling to small villages and gulling rubes out of their valuables.

There’s an essay in “Half Empty” about working on a movie that may or may not be “The First Wives Club” and you’ve been in the Oscar-winning short “The New Tenants.” Is acting something you want to continue to pursue?

I like to do audience readings – you get the sort of heroin thrill of audience response, which is lovely. I’m treated quite well in the writing world and for me to be treated as well in the acting world, I’d have to be Julianne Moore. [Solo theater performer] Mike Daisey is a total, total genius. My dream would be to do that kind of performance, but I see him, and I think, “Why would one even bother?”

Have you ever considered writing a novel?

Something happens to me: almost every time that I’ll be transcribing my notes from a story that I’ve been sent out to report, I’ll see a little detail – it’ll be the most quotidian thing, it won’t be “that’s when she took the ball-peen hammer and killed her children – and I just think, I could never do that.” So I think that I’d never make things to the satisfactory level that I’d want.

When you’re writing an essay, how does it evolve? Do you plot it out fully, or do you just sit down and go?

I wish I were better at outlining things and plotting them in advance, because it would be less torturous kind of riding-a-moving-bus-holding-on-with-my-teeth thing. The first agenda is that it be a classically familiar essay – which is a 19th-century idea – that begins in the personal and ends in the universal. So there’s a real hope and objective that I end up saying something bigger than just the initial jumping-off point.

So you want readers to focus on the bigger ideas.

Which is why I so bridle at the term memoirist – I want to be known for the way I use language and whatever style I have as a writer, as opposed to the particulars of my biography.

Look at the worldly and at the whole world that exalts itself above the people of God; are the image of God and his truth not distorted in it? They have science, and in science only that which is subject to the senses. But the spiritual world, the higher half of man’s being, is altogether rejected, banished with a sort of triumph, even with hatred. The world has proclaimed freedom, especially of late, but what do we see in this freedom of theirs; only slavery and suicide! For the world says: “You have needs, therefore satisfy them, for you have the same rights as the noblest and richest men. Do not be afraid to satisfy them, even increase them”—this is the current teaching of the world. And in this they see freedom. But what comes of this right to increase one’s needs? For the rich, isolation and spiritual suicide, for the poor, envy and murder, for they have been given rights, but have not yet been shown the say of satisfying their needs. We are assured that the world is becoming more and more united, is being transformed into brotherly communion, by the shortening of distances, by the transmitting of thoughts through the air. Alas, do not believe in such a union of people. Taking freedom to mean the increase and prompt satisfaction of needs, they distort their own nature, for they generate many meaningless and foolish desires, habits, and the most absurd fancies in themselves. They live only for mutual envy, for pleasure-seeking and self-display. To have dinners, horses, carriages, rank, and slaves to serve them is now considered such a necessity that for the sake of it, to satisfy it, they will sacrifice life, honor, the love of mankind, and even will kill themselves if they are unable to satisfy it. We see the same thing in those who are not rich, while the poor, so far, simply drown their unsatisfied needs and envy in drink. But soon they will get drunk on blood instead of wine, they are being led to that. I ask you: is such a man free?

The Brothers Karamazov, Fyodor Dostoevsky (trans. Richard Pevear and Larissa Voloshonsky)

You Ought to Be Ashamed

Honestly, Harold. If I had thought for a moment that it would come to this, we would never have bought you that chemistry set. “Just a little extra sulfur,” indeed.
Your father and I have talked it over, and we think that the best thing for you would be to sacrifice Quackers on an altar before the throne of his Glorious Excrescence Moloch. There will be no more science in this house, young man. No, don’t look at me like that. I know you’re not really going to keep him as a pet. You want to dissect him, don’t you? Yes, you think I don’t know you’ve been hiding copies of “Scientific American” under your mattress, but your father found them the other day while he was cursing your room. Don’t you tell me to stay out of your room. While you are under this roof you will obey the rules that your parents, and the Dread Demiurge Astaroth, may his name grow in squamous horror, make for you. When I think of what your poor dead grandmother would say if she were here to see this, I just get shivers all over. I have half a mind to let her out just to tell her all about it. No, don’t cry, honey. Oh, mommy’s sorry. Granny will stay safely in her padlocked crypt until the pounding stops forever. I promise. No, you’re still grounded. Yes, of course we want you to make decisions for yourself, but sometimes we have to interfere.
Now, your father has said – well, those are just the consequences! Your father has said that you should stay indoors and work on your augury for a month. I know that sounds harsh, but it’s for the best. And I don’t want you hanging around with that George Braverman anymore. I think he’s putting bad ideas in your head. Well, do you remember the time he wanted you to summon Einstein so you could ask him how the theory of relativity worked? That’s not something an evil little boy should be doing with his time.
We also think you should spend less time in the bathroom.