Student. 22. Previously a student at the University of Chicago. Currently studying mathematics & physics at MIT.
I think current attempts to express grief in literature are underpowered. And this grief can be for anything—people you've known, things you think you remember but fear you don't, a story's original language, that song that never comes on on the radio anymore, &c.
Marco Polo describes to Kublai Khan:
I thought: "You reach a moment in life when, among the people you have known, the dead outnumber the living. And the mind refuses to accept more faces, more expressions: on every new face you encounter, it prints the old forms, tor each one it finds the most suitable mask."
The stevedores climbed the steps in a line, bent beneath demijohns and barrels; their faces were hidden by sackcloth hoods; "Now they will straighten up and I will recognize them," I thought, with impatience and fear. But I could not take my eyes off them; if I turned my gaze just a little toward the crowd that crammed those narrow streets, I was assailed by unexpected faces, reappearing from far away, staring at me as if demanding recognition, as if to recognize me, as if they had already recognized me. Perhaps, for each of them, I also resembled someone who was dead. I had barely arrived at Adelma and I was already one of them, I had gone over to their side, absorbed in that kaleidoscope of eyes, wrinkles, grimaces.
I thought: "Perhaps Adelma is the city where you arrive dying and where each finds again the people he has known. This means I, too, am dead." And I also thought: "This means the beyond is not happy."
– Italo Calvino: Invisible Cities (p. 95)
I write and do a little math, and I'll keep trying to do so. Seriously, drop me a line.