Archives » Friday, July 11, 2008
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Darin Strauss
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Jul 11, 2008 09:40 AM
So, I have a stalker.
Or—I might have one. I’m new at this.
I mean, in a way, I’m psyched. Because—more than the other news I got recently, that the book debuted at number 3 on its first bestseller list—when you have a stalker, it marks your having arrived. Right? I just worry for my life.
On my Website,
I give out my address and NYU phone number, and also the times when I
can be reached. (I called that gimmick “Office Hours,” thinking it
would be funnyish, because my alter ego is a mild-mannered professor.)
And so: I’ve gotten a lot of very nice emails, from a lot of very nice
people. And then I got a different one. This different one opened the
lid on a box of crazy. And the crazy kept coming.
I’m wondering if I should be prudent here, and change the details of
the messages, or the gender of the writer. But, in for a penny……
“I want to know one thing, and that is, what is your opinion of life
after death,” one reads. “I think it is there. But I do not know what
you would think, or if I should know that you know what I think.
Because I do not know you, I mean not really. But I feel kinda I do.
That’s why I believe we couldn’t be friends. Not to say I don’t like
your writing, I do. But I do not like your book, even though it is
well-done, and beautifully written, and has characters who moved me,
and, I will admit, there’s a satisfying ending to it all. But not
friendship material, me and you.”
My book does not address the question of an afterlife. So there’s that.
There's really not much you can say to this. Grammatically, it makes
sense. But you can’t understand it, hard as you may try. And I’ve
tried. It resists understanding; it flicks understanding aside. It’s a
message from a dissimilar world, an unintelligible world without its
own internal consistency.
I weighed whether I should answer. I decided to erase it, because it
creeped me out. (I confess that what you read above is my most honest
recollection.)
I received two more an hour later: 1) “I told you we couldn’t be
friends in my last email. At least in my opinion, that is. Maybe I am
wrong. I hope I am wrong. We could meet and see. I really hope I’m
wrong.”
Right after came: 2) “You live in Brooklyn, right? Where in Brooklyn?”
I have two cute, new kids. Maybe even writing this is stupid because
it’ll make the e-mailer more angry? Or flattered? I don’t know.
Wiping my brow, licking the sweat from my mouth, I wrote back. “Thanks
for your note. I do live in Brooklyn. But I must say I don’t understand
your notes. I believe in some form of the afterlife, but I’m not sure.
I always wonder about things, such as: if your spouse dies young, and
you remarry, and you love both spouses equally—how does that work
itself out in heaven.”
The e-mailer wrote: “That is why we cannot be friends.” If something
happens to me, you’ll know whom to blame. (I’ve emailed the person’s
address to the proper authorities. That is, to my wife.)
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