{"id":97539,"date":"2016-04-29T14:13:50","date_gmt":"2016-04-29T18:13:50","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=97539"},"modified":"2016-04-29T14:38:24","modified_gmt":"2016-04-29T18:38:24","slug":"jenny-diski-1947-2016","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/04\/29\/jenny-diski-1947-2016\/","title":{"rendered":"Jenny Diski, 1947\u20132016"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

Jenny Diski died yesterday. You might have discovered that fact if you happened to visit the\u00a0London Review of Books<\/a><\/em>, where Diski published essays, reviews, and blog posts for nearly twenty-five years. Or maybe, like me, you learned it on Twitter, where, hours before the obituaries arrived, old tweets of Diski\u2019s, some of them years out of date, started swirling back into circulation. They joined a tumble of appreciative links and quotations, an accumulation whose size quickly disqualified the possibility of happy coincidence. This is how death announces itself now, at least for the artists who don\u2019t rate a breaking-news alert on our phones: a surge of mentions on social media, a collective attempt to plug up the vacuum of absence with digital abundance. For a moment you think you\u2019ve lucked into an outpouring of spontaneous enthusiasm.\u00a0Finally!<\/em>\u00a0you tell yourself.\u00a0We\u2019re talking about her now!<\/em>\u00a0But then quickly enough the rational brain reasserts itself and begins working down the checklist: Are they handing out Nobels today? A genius grant, maybe? Was someone quoted by Beyonc\u00e9? No? Oh. Oh, no.\u00a0<\/p>\n

This momentary suspension of belief worked again on me yesterday, even though Diski\u2019s death could hardly count as a surprise. She was not old\u2014sixty-eight\u2014but we\u2019d known that her death was coming soon, because she\u2019d been telling us so, in a series of remarkable essays in the\u00a0LRB,<\/em>\u00a0for more than a year and a half.<\/em>\u00a0In the fall of 2014, Diski announced<\/a>\u00a0that she had an inoperable cancer in her lung. She\u2019d written more than a dozen books, including novels, short stories, and travelogues, and her decision to chronicle her dying was simple. \u201cI\u2019m a writer. I\u2019ve got cancer. Am I going to write about it? How am I not? I pretended for a moment that I might not, but knew I had to, because writing is what I do and now cancer is what I do, too.\u201d<\/p>\n

By the time of her first cancer essay, Diski was already used to writing about herself\u2014\u201cI start with me, and often enough end with me,\u201d she once said\u2014and she was already used to writing about herself\u00a0in extremis.<\/em>\u00a0In 2009, she got fed up with a group of celebrities who had protested Roman Polanski\u2019s arrest for a thirty-year-old rape. Particularly galling, she wrote, was the idea, suggested by the protesters\u2019 petition, \u201cof a thirteen-year-old consenting to have oral sex with a forty-four-year-old film director.\u201d She then went on, with startling clarity, to describe her own experience of being raped, at the age of fourteen. In a similar fashion, a review<\/a> of a memoir by a psychiatric patient became, in its way, a memoir of Diski\u2019s own harrowing experience as a psychiatric patient decades ago.<\/p>\n

Still, there is extreme, and then there is extinction. From the start, Diski recognized the difficulty of the task she\u2019d set herself. \u201cCan there possibly be anything new to add?\u201d she wondered. \u201cIsn\u2019t the clich\u00e9 of writing a cancer diary going to be compounded by the impossibility of writing in it anything other than what has already been written, over and over? Same story, same ending.\u201d<\/p>\n

A reasonable worry for most writers, but it turned out to be unnecessary in her case. It helped that Diski\u2019s story was not the same story. In the narrative of her final months\u2014the steroids, the Weetabix, the fentanyl patch\u2014she chose to tell, for the first time, about living with Doris Lessing as a teenager, and about their complicated relationship thereafter. In large part, however, the\u00a0appeal of Diski\u2019s essays was the appeal of Diski herself. On the page she was brilliant, irritable, mordant, and humane. She could be hard on herself, and hard on others, but the hardness always seemed to have a point, as though anyone who hoped to reach even a tactical accommodation with what she once called \u201cthe adamantine way of the world\u201d had to be prepared to match it rigor for rigor. Often hilarious\u2014she was justly proud of answering her initial cancer diagnosis with a joke\u2014she saw the slant in otherwise ordinary situations, and despised tendentiousness or cant of any sort.\u00a0<\/p>\n

In an illuminating profile<\/a>\u00a0last year, Giles Harvey wrote that Diski\u2019s cancer diary made for a \u201cmarvel of steady and dispassionate self-revelation.\u201d This is true, and yet for all her apparent equipoise, Diski also understood that an unflinching record of her final days meant that sometimes she\u2019d have to show herself mid flinch. As she wrote in\u00a0her final LRB<\/em> essay<\/a>, published in February:<\/p>\n

\n

I am scared of dissolution, of casting my particles to the wind, of having nothing to cast my particles to the wind with, of knowing nothing when knowing everything has been the taste every day, little by little, by knowing what little meant compared to a lot, compared to something or nothing.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

\u201cFrom a young girl on,\u201d she wrote in another essay, \u201cwriting and being a writer was the only way I could think of to be, the only way to balance the down side of the seesaw.\u201d She carried that lesson to the very end, seesaw and all.\u00a0\u201cPretty strange to see myself ebullient about being alive,\u201d she wrote on Twitter in January. \u201cNot sure I believe a word of it.\u201d<\/p>\n

Robert P.\u00a0Baird is <\/em>The Paris Review\u2019s editor at large.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Jenny Diski died yesterday. You might have discovered that fact if you happened to visit the\u00a0London Review of Books, where Diski published essays, reviews, and blog posts for nearly twenty-five years. 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