The Queer Lit world is still in shock at the news that the great Queer author, Edmund White has passed. Only his husband, Michael Carroll, and a few close friends knew that the end was near. Mr. White had been turning out at least one book a year for the past few years and I naturally assumed this rapid clip would continue. Whether he was writing about himself, Arthur Rimbaud, Lillian Hellman, Jean Genet, Frances Wright or Marcel Proust, Mr. White’s voice was literary, erudite, thoughtful, funny and often sexy. Perhaps that’s why opening his latest book always felt like meeting up with a good friend.
Everyone who met him has their own “How I met Edmund White” story. Here’s mine:
At the time I met Edmund White, I had reached the conclusion that he was stuck up—even arrogant. By that time—about twenty years ago—Mr. White had won so many literary accolades and received such critical praise that I assumed he was insufferable. It was bound to go to his head. It was just human nature.
And then I went to Gristedes. The great American author, Edmund White was in my local supermarket—staring intently at the lightbulbs display. And somehow, I couldn’t resist asking him, “Excuse me, are you Edmund White?”
His face lit up. “Yes, I am!”
Then I told him how much loved his work, particularly The Beautiful Room is Empty, which I had read twice. He was pleased, though not terribly surprised by this and quickly turned the conversation to other queer writers. Which other queer authors did I admire? He listed a few and I agreed with him on all but one. He seemed genuinely interested. We chatted for a surprisingly long time. And then he changed the subject. He had already been to the hardware store and he still couldn’t find this particular lightbulb.
A few years later I found myself sitting at a restaurant table with Mr. White just after he had done a reading from his most recent book. His voice was soft, but passionate. He wasn’t talking about himself or other authors. He was talking about a documentary he had recently seen about Chiune Sugihara: the Japanese man who saved the lives of thousands of Jews during the Second World War. “When they asked him why he did it, he said it was because it was the right thing to do!”, he said, without raising his voice. That’s how I’m remembering Edmund White today. Soft-spoken, passionate, kind-hearted.
Like Christopher Isherwood, Edmund White had a remarkable ability to relate to people from all walks of life. Some call this ‘charm’. But for Mr. White it was simply the fact that he was genuinely interested in others—even when the focus was entirely on him.
It is appropriate that Mr. White died at the beginning of Gay Pride Month. And it is also appropriate that his last book, The Loves of My Life, A Sex Memoir, was a beautiful rendering of his life as queer history.
For the millions of Queer readers around the world still grieving his loss, we have more than one consolation. We have thirty-one. Thirty-one books that Edmund White has left us with. And they’re all still in print.
Rest in Power, sweet Edmund