Here is my eulogy from last night’s memorial for my friend George Hodgman. His life was filled with literary highs: bestseller, critical acclaim, meeting hundreds of people who turned out for his readings. And a film in the works. But as with many writers, depression settled in and boxed out hope. I share this with the hope that any fellow sufferers get the help they need.
I’m Betsy Lerner, George’s literary agent. He was also one of my first friends in publishing. George was a copy writer when I met him at Simon and Schuster over 30 years ago. I knew from his catalogue copy that he was a gifted writer and always pushed him to do his own work. When George gave me the first pages to Bettyville, I knew they were amazing, but I’m also a pragmatist and I felt the need to tell him that we had some challenges. First, that gay memoirs were still difficult to sell and that books about dementia were even more difficult. Fine, he snapped, I’ll go to Binky. George knew how to push my buttons and enjoyed doing so with relish. For the record, he continued to threaten me with going to Binky whenever I told him something he didn’t like.
Some of you know that the last months of my life have been filled with loss. My mother died in April, my beloved niece Ruby and nephew Hart were killed by a drunk driver in June, and then my dear friend took his life in July. There are days when I can hardly keep my head above water. My family has sadly had a crash course in grieving, and tonight I want to share four things I’ve learned. I apologize in advance for bringing you down.
1) Please don’t say that George is in a better place. A better place is sitting next to me at the National Book Critics Circle Award. A better place is sitting between me and Carole at the Discover Prize and watching George give his acceptance speech. A better place is watching him take Raj off leash in a wide field in Paris, Missouri and clapping while his dog cantered through the open air, filled with love for this magnificent beast more horse than dog in that moment, or sharing a ciggie after on his mom’s stoop and pulling a few dead petals from the fading roses. And better place is certainly having his lemon chicken at Il Cantinori with his publishing friends dishing up the best and latest gossip in town.
2) Please don’t say you wish there was something you can do. You can support the George Hodgman scholarship or any organization that you believe in. When a new assistant editor joins your publishing house, you can take him or her to lunch and make them feel less anxious and more welcome. George always did that. He arranged a reader for a friend going blind to read to him twice a week. He’d give a homeless person a twenty, or a sandwich or a cup of coffee. I always said George was the most wicked and the kindest person I knew. We can all be more kind. I can be more kind.
3) Please don’t say George is no longer suffering. Suffering is life. Suffering means you can go to one more meeting at Perry Street. Suffering means you can go to a movie. Suffering means I can drive you to rehab again and you can work on recovery because no matter how much a person wishes to die, life also beckons if only in a quiet voice. Life wants you at least as much as death. By the way, when I drove George to rehab, he had heard that Liza had been a patient there and when he wasn’t sleeping or eating powdered donuts, he was singing every Minelli song he could remember at the top of his lungs. Later he dubbed our journey Driving Miss Crazy
4) Last, please don’t say there aren’t any words. We are the people of the book. Words are exactly what we have. Words meant everything to George and he approached every book he worked on with the same expectation: excellence. He wouldn’t rest until everything was right: the structure, the prose, the narrative arc, the emotional impact. He always had a vision and cajoled and prodded and nurtured his writers until they got it. He put many writers on the map and on the bestseller list. Even when publishing bounced him out, a legacy of the books he acquired continued to win accolades and land on the list. George was deeply serious about his books, but he also knew about razzle dazzle, how to make it sparkle. He made everything more sparkly. When it came to Bettyville, George had the courage to find his own words, his own voice. When George found the words they were everything you might expect: kind, loving, beautifully observed, hilarious, heartbreaking. When my mother was failing, George had shown me the way in Bettyville. It’s a playbook on how to care for our aging and dying parents with patience and love. He gave us those words.
What is your experience with suicidal ideation in yourself or others?
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Betsy Lerner 