Lore Segal, who died on Monday, spent the final 4 months of her life looking the window. Her world had been shrinking for a while, as a hip substitute, a pacemaker, deteriorating imaginative and prescient, and different encroachments of previous age had made it troublesome to depart her New York Metropolis condo, even with assistance from the walker she known as “my chariot.” However now, after a minor coronary heart assault in June, she was confined to a hospital mattress at house. There, she might research the rooftops and vintage water tanks of the Higher West Facet—a parochial imaginative and prescient for some, however not for the Viennese-born Segal, who as soon as described herself as “naturalized not in North America a lot as in Manhattan.”
After all, she was an previous hand at seeing the universe in a nutshell. It was considered one of her nice virtues as each a author and an individual, and her affinity for tiny, telling particulars had drawn me to her work lengthy earlier than I turned her pal. I additionally cherished her freshness of notion. In Segal’s 1985 novel, Her First American, Ilka Weissnix, newly arrived on this nation, disembarks from a practice in small-town Nevada and has what have to be one of many only a few epiphanies ever prompted by a glue manufacturing unit. “The low constructing was manufactured from a rosy, luminescent brick,” Segal writes, “and quivered within the blue haze of the oncoming evening—it levitated. The basic home windows and sq. white letters, saying AMERICAN GLUE INC., moved Ilka with a way of magnificence so out of proportion to the thing, Ilka acknowledged euphoria.”
To some extent, this euphoria will need to have stemmed from Segal’s personal historical past as an immigrant. She left Vienna on the Kindertransport in 1938, then lived in Britain and Santo Domingo earlier than making landfall in the US in 1951. Her books are full of people that have been dislodged from one place and set down in one other. The challenges of such displacement are apparent. However it may be a present for a author, dropped right into a glittering surroundings whose each element is, to make use of Segal’s favourite phrase, attention-grabbing.
She additionally possessed extraordinary empathy. Segal was fairly particular about what this meant, and resisted the concept of being seen as a sufferer, even when it got here to her slender escape from the Third Reich’s killing machine. “Sympathy pities one other particular person’s expertise,” she as soon as wrote, “whereas empathy experiences that have.” It was getting inside different those that counted, even when our grasp of one other human soul was all the time partial.
Her empathetic impulse accounted for a hilarious remark she as soon as made to me about her television-watching habits: “I don’t like to observe exhibits the place folks really feel awkward.” As a result of that is the modus operandi of virtually each post-Seinfeld TV present, it will need to have actually reduce down Segal’s viewing choices. I feel what bothered her had been eventualities particularly engineered to carry out our helplessness in social or existential conditions. She discovered it onerous to hate different folks and couldn’t even carry herself to dislike the water bug that lived in her kitchen.
I’m not suggesting that Segal was some kind of Pollyanna. She was effectively conscious of our capability for cruelty and destruction—it had, in spite of everything, been shoved in her face when she was very younger. However her fascination with human habits on the person degree appeared to insulate her from acquired considering on nearly any subject. “Contradiction was her intuition, her autobiography, her politics,” Segal wrote of her doppelgänger, Ilka, who reappeared in Shakespeare’s Kitchen greater than 20 years after the publication of Her First American. “Point out a reality and Ilka’s thoughts kicked into motion to spherical up the info that disproved it. Categorical an opinion and Ilka’s blood was as much as voice an reverse thought.” The whole lot needed to be freshly examined; every little thing needed to move the litmus take a look at that’s consistently being staged in a author’s mind.
Segal additionally introduced this method to ideological truths, few of which made the grade. It’s fascinating to me {that a} author so allergic to ideology managed to supply one of many nice Holocaust narratives and one of many nice American novels about race—tasks that may now be hobbled by questions of authenticity and appropriation. For Segal, the glut of knowledge, and the moral exhaustion that resulted, turned up to date existence right into a minefield, and politics was no approach out. Decency was, however that took monumental work and focus.
“To be good, sane, glad is easy provided that you subscribe to the Eden idea of unique goodness, unique sanity, and unique happiness, which humankind subverted into an enchanting rottenness,” she wrote in an essay. “Statement would counsel that we come by our rottenness aboriginally and that rightness, like another accomplishment, is one thing achieved.” In all of her books, in each phrase she wrote, Segal struggled for that very rightness. I’d say she achieved it too, with superb frequency.
I can’t take into consideration Lore Segal’s work with out desirous about my friendship along with her. For years and years, I learn her books and admired her from a distance. It was solely in 2009 that I lastly met Lore, as I’ll now name her. Her writer was reissuing Lucinella, a madcap 1976 novella that someway mingles the literary life with Greek mythology: Zeus turns up at Yaddo, the celebrated artists’ colony, in a notably priapic temper. I used to be requested to interview her at a bookshop, and we hit it off directly.
This small, witty, white-haired particular person, whose voice nonetheless bore the inflection of her Viennese childhood, was a pleasure to be round. She laughed so much, and made you giggle. Her marvelous capability to concentrate made you’re feeling larger-hearted and somewhat extra clever—it was as when you had been borrowing these qualities from her. In her condo, with its grand piano and Maurice Sendak drawings and punctiliously organized collections of nutcrackers and fin de siècle scissors, we spent many hours visiting, speaking, joking, complaining. We bemoaned the slowness and blindness and intransigence of editors (even through the years once I was an editor). We drank the dry white wine I’d purchase on the liquor retailer three blocks away, and Lore all the time pronounced the identical verdict after her first sip: “That is good.”
In time, she started sending me early drafts of the tales that may finally make up most of her 2023 assortment, Girls’ Lunch. As her imaginative and prescient worsened, the fonts grew bigger—by the top, I’d be studying one thing in 48-point Calibri, with only a few phrases on every web page. I used to be flattered, in fact, to perform as a primary reader for considered one of my idols. I used to be touched as effectively to find that she was nonetheless beset with doubts about her work. “Wouldn’t you suppose that age may confer the understanding that one is aware of what one is doing?” she lamented in an e mail a few years in the past. “It doesn’t. It deprives.”
We noticed one another, too, at conferences of our ebook group, which Lore had invited me to hitch in 2010. In more moderen years, we all the time met at Lore’s, as a result of it had develop into more durable and more durable for her to bundle herself and her walker right into a taxi. Just a few weeks earlier than she died, the group met one final time, at her insistence. She had chosen a beloved favourite, Henry James’s The Ambassadors, and was not going to be cheated out of the dialog.
We sat round her hospital mattress, along with her oxygen machine giving off its periodic sighs within the background. Lore, peering as soon as extra into the microcosm of James’s novel and discovering the entire world inside it, requested the sort of questions she all the time requested.
“Are the characters on this novel distinctive folks?” she wished to know.
“After all not,” replied one other member of the group. “They’re completely typical folks of the interval, well-heeled Individuals with out an unique thought of their heads.”
This didn’t fulfill Lore. She felt that Lambert Strether, despatched off to the fleshpots of Paris to retrieve his fiancée’s errant son, had been loaned a few of James’s knowledge and perceptive powers (precisely as I all the time thought I used to be borrowing Lore’s). “Stay all you’ll be able to,” Strether advises, with very un-Jamesian bluntness. And right here was Lore, dwelling all she might, typically resting her head on the pillow between one pithy statement and the subsequent. It was the capability to really feel, she argued, that had been woke up within the novel’s protagonist. Empathy, slightly than evaluation, was Lore’s true foreign money to the very finish.
I visited her only a few extra occasions. She was fading; the multicolored array of capsules and eye drops on the desk grew larger and extra forbidding; the oxygen machine appeared louder with simply the 2 of us within the room.
“I hope I’ll see you once more,” I stated, the final time I left. These are the kind of phrases often uttered firstly of a friendship, not on the conclusion. “However no matter occurs, I’ll be considering of you.”
Out the door I went, and boarded the elevator, in whose creaking inside I shed a number of tears, and as I strolled up a type of Higher West Facet streets mounded with the trash luggage that Lore had so eloquently described (“the bloated, inexperienced, big vinyl luggage with their unexplained bellies and elbows”), I discovered myself asking: Why will we cry? How will we address loss? What, exactly, is disappointment? These had been the questions that Lore would ask—the questions she had been asking her total profession. Her books represent a sort of reply, not less than a provisional one. I shall be studying them for the remainder of my life and, precisely as I promised Lore on my approach out the door, considering of her.
