/lit/ - Literature

>>21964240
>In school, “He did everything exactly how it should be done or you fantasize it should be done,” my father said. Even as he excelled, Anthony’s good looks and athleticism freed him from the social death of being a smart kid in high school. “He was very handsome, [he had] a lot of girlfriends, and he was invited to do everything,” my mother said. ”He really was a star. You just felt better when you were around him ... If you were his friend, you felt as you've elevated yourself in a way, and I think that was the draw, but he wasn't a snob. I don't think he had a great sense of humor, but he appreciated people who did. He himself was not lighthearted, he wasn't jovial and spontaneous, I don't think, but I think he liked to be around people who were.”

>I knew so little of this before Anthony died. I was five years older and left for boarding school when he was 9. We never lived in the same place again or spoke with any regularity. We caught up during school vacations and exchanged terse emails about hanging out more, but neither of us made it a priority. We’d always have adulthood to know each other.

>From afar I heard news of Anthony’s emergence as an academic superstar. And like an imperial power amused by an upstart colony, I couldn’t believe that my little brother, whom I remember coming downstairs grumpy in blue pajamas, was so impressive. “He was a perfectionist. Ninety-five, to him, was a failing grade,” my mother said. “He was also very generous with his knowledge. He helped people a lot, in school … He wanted everyone to succeed.”

>Anna remembers the kind letters he sent her when they were at summer camp, signed, “love, your bro.” Yet he could be blind to others’ needs, thinking nothing, for example, of asking her to drive him back to college, rather than taking the bus, so he could keep his study schedule and save some money. She drove two hours out of her way to do it, because she’s uncommonly kind and she loved his company. “He never felt like he was in a rush with other people. If he was with you, he felt very present. If he was speaking to you, it felt like he was focused on you. He wasn't multitasking.”

>Anna, who’s now a resident in psychiatry in Manhattan, said, “His selfishness served him well academically but became exacerbated by his disease. He couldn't have empathy for himself, or for others. He couldn’t think of the effect that his death would have on all of us. He lost the capacity to see an honest reflection of himself and in turn lost the capacity to be able to think about how much we loved him, wanted to help him and would be devastated by his death.” She allowed that, “Maybe he wanted to hurt us in this way but that is both very hard and very painful to believe. His illness was very powerful and challenged who he was.”

>>18633503
>In school, “He did everything exactly how it should be done or you fantasize it should be done,” my father said. Even as he excelled, Anthony’s good looks and athleticism freed him from the social death of being a smart kid in high school. “He was very handsome, [he had] a lot of girlfriends, and he was invited to do everything,” my mother said. ”He really was a star. You just felt better when you were around him ... If you were his friend, you felt as you've elevated yourself in a way, and I think that was the draw, but he wasn't a snob. I don't think he had a great sense of humor, but he appreciated people who did. He himself was not lighthearted, he wasn't jovial and spontaneous, I don't think, but I think he liked to be around people who were.”

>I knew so little of this before Anthony died. I was five years older and left for boarding school when he was 9. We never lived in the same place again or spoke with any regularity. We caught up during school vacations and exchanged terse emails about hanging out more, but neither of us made it a priority. We’d always have adulthood to know each other.

>From afar I heard news of Anthony’s emergence as an academic superstar. And like an imperial power amused by an upstart colony, I couldn’t believe that my little brother, whom I remember coming downstairs grumpy in blue pajamas, was so impressive. “He was a perfectionist. Ninety-five, to him, was a failing grade,” my mother said. “He was also very generous with his knowledge. He helped people a lot, in school … He wanted everyone to succeed.”

>Anna remembers the kind letters he sent her when they were at summer camp, signed, “love, your bro.” Yet he could be blind to others’ needs, thinking nothing, for example, of asking her to drive him back to college, rather than taking the bus, so he could keep his study schedule and save some money. She drove two hours out of her way to do it, because she’s uncommonly kind and she loved his company. “He never felt like he was in a rush with other people. If he was with you, he felt very present. If he was speaking to you, it felt like he was focused on you. He wasn't multitasking.”

>Anna, who’s now a resident in psychiatry in Manhattan, said, “His selfishness served him well academically but became exacerbated by his disease. He couldn't have empathy for himself, or for others. He couldn’t think of the effect that his death would have on all of us. He lost the capacity to see an honest reflection of himself and in turn lost the capacity to be able to think about how much we loved him, wanted to help him and would be devastated by his death.” She allowed that, “Maybe he wanted to hurt us in this way but that is both very hard and very painful to believe. His illness was very powerful and challenged who he was.”

>In school, “He did everything exactly how it should be done or you fantasize it should be done,” my father said. Even as he excelled, Anthony’s good looks and athleticism freed him from the social death of being a smart kid in high school. “He was very handsome, [he had] a lot of girlfriends, and he was invited to do everything,” my mother said. ”He really was a star. You just felt better when you were around him ... If you were his friend, you felt as you've elevated yourself in a way, and I think that was the draw, but he wasn't a snob. I don't think he had a great sense of humor, but he appreciated people who did. He himself was not lighthearted, he wasn't jovial and spontaneous, I don't think, but I think he liked to be around people who were.”

>I knew so little of this before Anthony died. I was five years older and left for boarding school when he was 9. We never lived in the same place again or spoke with any regularity. We caught up during school vacations and exchanged terse emails about hanging out more, but neither of us made it a priority. We’d always have adulthood to know each other.

>From afar I heard news of Anthony’s emergence as an academic superstar. And like an imperial power amused by an upstart colony, I couldn’t believe that my little brother, whom I remember coming downstairs grumpy in blue pajamas, was so impressive. “He was a perfectionist. Ninety-five, to him, was a failing grade,” my mother said. “He was also very generous with his knowledge. He helped people a lot, in school … He wanted everyone to succeed.”

>Anna remembers the kind letters he sent her when they were at summer camp, signed, “love, your bro.” Yet he could be blind to others’ needs, thinking nothing, for example, of asking her to drive him back to college, rather than taking the bus, so he could keep his study schedule and save some money. She drove two hours out of her way to do it, because she’s uncommonly kind and she loved his company. “He never felt like he was in a rush with other people. If he was with you, he felt very present. If he was speaking to you, it felt like he was focused on you. He wasn't multitasking.”

>Anna, who’s now a resident in psychiatry in Manhattan, said, “His selfishness served him well academically but became exacerbated by his disease. He couldn't have empathy for himself, or for others. He couldn’t think of the effect that his death would have on all of us. He lost the capacity to see an honest reflection of himself and in turn lost the capacity to be able to think about how much we loved him, wanted to help him and would be devastated by his death.” She allowed that, “Maybe he wanted to hurt us in this way but that is both very hard and very painful to believe. His illness was very powerful and challenged who he was.”