It just slid, like a turtleneck going over someone’s head.” “I thought: ‘This is a really strange art project.’ It was a most amazing sight in terms of sheer elegance. “I had not the slightest emotional reaction,” she told a journalist in 2002. What came to mind on Tuesday, the minute I heard she’d died, were a few impromptu comments she’d made about watching the twin towers fall on 9/11. In middle age, conspiring with her in the corner of a book party or a bar mitzvah was delirious fun - better than the cocaine we both regretted doing when we were young. maybe the phrase is “a piece of work.” For years I studied her from a safe distance, starstruck, until I came to know her more intimately through my ex-husband, who was her oldest friend.
I met Elizabeth first in the mid-1990s, not long after “Prozac Nation” came out, when she was famous for self-harm and exhibitionism, but also for writing with cracked brio about pop music for the New Yorker. But she somehow could see the full spectrum of her own refracted light.
“A rainbow does not see it has color,” Elizabeth wrote, in 2017. Obituaries Elizabeth Wurtzel, author of trailblazing memoir ‘Prozac Nation,’ dies at 52Įlizabeth Wurtzel, who wrote influential memoirs documenting her struggles with addiction and depression, died Tuesday at age 52. In her work she unflaggingly beheld her own existence, and existence itself, in suspended animation she was forever on high alert to how existence felt on her neurons, her fingertips, her face, her legs, her bloodstream. She was her own best perceiver, so I have to trust her on that. I’m thinking of that grin right now, her passion for her dogs, and the neo-coral lipstick, and how she considered cancer her “final con.”īut if she gave her friends love, she did seem to give herself a headache. Though her books were made of sublime laments and self-savagery, she was wide-smiling and bright-eyed in person. It’s hard to convey, without screenshots of email and texts, how generous she’s been for the last two decades. Other times she sent photos of my kids, the odd good word, a fantastic anecdote. As I look over emails from her, I find she never failed to check in after big events, to offer congratulations or condolences. “I am in it for the headache.”Įlizabeth found herself extremely difficult.
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