I am such the fake academic these days, but I can't help but bear witness to the passing of Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick. She was the advisor to one of my advisors (the one who hates me right now). In academic terms, that makes her my granny. I'm not worthy, but I'm gonna claim her anyway. Her work has always moved me (the theoretical basis of my dissertation kinda hinges on her), but never more than when I heard her speak on the weather in Proust a few years ago. Hearing her speak was part performance art, part summer sun shower; I left in a groggy haze of lucidity. I wish I could get my hands on that paper but I don't think it's published yet. Or maybe I need to break down and read Proust - a friend told me at age thirty that the time had come, but a decade later I haven't made it far into the first volume. Maybe it holds clues to reliving and writing my own temps perdue (like the weather!)

Eve, we need you now more than ever.

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