Gilly got a much-deserved write up in the NYT today.
The GNB has all the links and such here, as well as a lovely wreath of words from Jesse Wendel and some well-delivered corrections to the general tone of the piece (For example, somebody tell Matt Bai that he voided his poetic license when he decided to trowel on the "po' lonely guy" bathos when in real life those that knew him say Steve was not that way at all.)
Still, I can easily believe that someone like Gilly was a man alone in an entirely different sense: a man who could see things with a clarity that others did not see at all; who was every day terribly troubled by events (and their likely consequences) that others were not even aware existed.
And that particular Cassandric watch tower can be a very lonesome dwelling.
So to put it better than I ever could, I'm going to
Edgar Allan Poe -- "Alone"
From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
It's a poem which reads dark and rather melancholy, and is therefor a pretty accurate reflection of my own, inner emotional state -- one of selfish anger that I will never read another new post from Gilly again.
But then from somewhere I hear Steve admonishing me -- "Yeah, whatever. Now fuck your self-pitying bullshit and get back to work." -- and I know that this
is so much more the right coda to the Big Guy's life and work.
Rest in Peace my friend.