Which put me off a little, at the time; isn’t
there a certain responsibility to the audience that goes along with Fame?
Or was it this quality that made him special, and that made his songs
work on me the way they do? I would ask the same questions now, but it
would be heartless to do so, and besides, I don’t think they’re
at all near the point. Because there is no point. That’s
why suicide affects us the way it does. Any sense of coherent narrative
suddenly collapses, and you’re left with a story that ends without
that here-comes-the-conclusion moment that you know from Charles Dickens
or John Irving novels. All that’s left is one’s sense of
how bad that final moment must have been, and how impotent one’s
desire to somehow step in and make it better really is, and at that point
somebody else’s story suddenly becomes our story, and
it’s a dreadful thing.
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