The season has changed and autumn has arrived in all its regalia. With each new season I am reminded that life is a series of beginnings and endings. This is no bad thing—it’s good to be reminded of the fleeting nature of time. But for some reason, the introduction of this particular autumn has made me think more intensely about impermanence, and more specifically, about a friendship of mine that came to an end before it had a chance to begin.
Last year, purely by good fortune, I met someone I had long admired at a party. I made a beeline for this person whose podcasts and writings on liberty and free speech had informed and enriched my life. I can’t remember the last time I was that excited to meet someone—I felt like a child meeting their new best friend on the first day of school.
Full of excitement, I introduced myself and my husband to this new, wonderful person that, until that moment, had only existed on a podcast. And without any care that I might sound like Annie Wilkes from Stephen King’s book, Misery, I uttered the words: “I’m your number one fan”. We talked and laughed about all sorts of things; the countryside, art, music; he was full of joie de vivre. The child in me whispered, “He must stay in your life.”
In the following months we exchanged emails that revealed glimpses of our lives. I discovered he was a fan of classical music, particularly Wagner. The countryside was no draw for him, having spent his boyhood in what he saw as the trappings of rural life. I admired the way he seemed so engaged with the world—as if it were a book that he couldn’t put down.
We agreed to meet for lunch one day in London after we had both been on our summer holidays. I imagined the conversations we would have. I wanted to ask him questions on faith, philosophy, his favourite food and whether the state of the world disturbed him as much as it did me. And if not—why not? Would I be lucky enough to have this insouciance rub off on me? I had much to learn from him.
One day, before I was going to email him to arrange our lunch date, I accidentally came across something in the paper that jolted me: his obituary.
He had passed away suddenly, without warning and without the privilege of reaching old age. And suddenly this man with whom I had the briefest of encounters with suddenly became a ghost in my life. It was the strangest of feelings to feel grief for a loss of a friendship yet to be played out.
I frantically sought out the many obituaries online. Looking back, I realise that I was still trying to learn about him through others, now that I could no longer ask him any questions myself. They all confirmed what I had known all along: he was a man of integrity and brilliance.
At times I have felt guilty about feeling somewhat aggrieved, sad and even injured at the loss of a friendship that had yet to bloom—he had a family and friends who truly knew him. These strong feelings I have appear indulgent and yet I have allowed myself to explore them.
We don’t just grieve for the things that we’ve held close, but also the loss of potential and possibility. Encounters, even brief ones, can leave their mark on us.
The new season has reminded me that life is a merry-go-round of beginnings and endings. I now understand that though I may have known this brilliant person for just a season, in that short space of time he reminded me how marvellously intoxicating life can be.
