Remembering Anthony Bourdain

"The stars are not wanted now: put out every one; 

Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;

Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;

For nothing now can ever come to any good." -- W.H. Auden, "Stop the Clocks"

There comes a time in every person's life when death affects them with what seems like a personal vendetta. When we are young, we don't notice death all that much. In fact, we feel downright immortal at times. When we are extremely old, I would hope, we've come to accept death as a part of life, and if we are fortunate, we are at peace with ourselves and our own inevitable demise. It's that sweet spot that is anything but where I reside now, where my heroes, idols, and and spiritual mentors are leaving this plane of existence and forcing me to reflect on grief, loss, and my own place in this life.

Bowie.

Williams.

Prince.

Cornell.

And today, the world lost Anthony Bourdain, chef, writer, world traveler, human. Everyone knows he wasn't perfect, dealing with addiction, depression, and suicidal thoughts. But as I tell my literature students, it seems all the geniuses of this world are severely screwed up in some way. Their genius is an outlet, a way to deal with a world where they don't fit, where they are tormented, where they hurt. And so with the majesty of what they produce, we often discover a boatload of underlying pain, as well.

Fitzegerald.

Hemingway.

Plath.

Woolf.

Bourdain, though. He gave me so much hope. When I first read Kitchen Confidential, over a decade ago, food writing and cooking shows weren't in vogue, as they are now. His blunt, divisive, absolutely cutting approach to writing was as beautiful as it was unpolished and unsentimental. His expose of the restaurant industry didn't make me revile eating out; it mesmerized me. I wanted to know more. I began devouring every book on cooking that I could.

Bittman.

Pepin.

Ruhlman.

Child.

Tony's life was messed up. Late nights followed by drug and alcohol binges was a life I could not fathom and never desired. But his spirit...it was so adventurous. He would try anything. He would do anything. And he survived it all. And he mellowed, a bit anyway. When he brought No Reservations to television, I was hooked. Here was a show that spanned the globe, celebrating countries both revered and underdeveloped. His shows focused on the people he met as much or more than the food he found, and from when it began airing in 2005 until its final episode in 2013, Tony taught us that the world and the people in it are beautiful and aren't to be feared. He saw war. He saw famine. But the underlying message of every episode was that we are privileged to live on this planet. Parts Unknown picked up where No Reservations left off, and it will be missed. For thirteen years, an extraordinary run, Bourdain essentially lived to remind us all that the world is good, even when it's bad, and we should relish it and its people. 

“[When I die], I will decidedly not be regretting missed opportunities for a good time. My regrets will be more along the lines of a sad list of people hurt, people let down, assets wasted and advantages squandered.” -- Anthony Bourdain, Kitchen Confidential

I'm not naive. I know a lot of people disliked Bourdain. For his drug use; his alcohol use; his excessively foul mouth. He was coarse; he was blunt. But now, more than ever, we need his brutal honesty, his unabashed truthfulness, in this world. For me, the world is terribly smaller for his passing. 

And now I wonder who is next. I'm not even close to being finished hurting for Tony, and I worry who is next. And it's on this fear that I must dwell for a moment. Tony, like Robin Williams not so long ago, dealt with something in his final days that I don't understand. I don't know what it is to consider taking my own life, but I feel as if it would be terrifying, paralyzing, and depressing. As a teacher, and as a human, I beg you: if you see a student, a friend, a co-worker, someone you dislike, someone you love, anyone dealing with anything resembling depression or suicidal thoughts, please call someone. Here is a link for the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline. Their number, accessible 24 hours a day, is 1-800-273-8255. Share this with people you fear may need help.

Thanks for listening to my cathartic vent. I needed to get this out.

https://www.flickr.com/photos/cinnachick/2744967609

Anthony Bourdain (June 25, 1956 - June 8, 2018)