The Cranky Book Reviewer read Calypso by David Sedaris

(She’s cranky because she’ll never write anything as good)

I love David Sedaris.

My friend Mike committed suicide in his late twenties. At the time, I hadn’t seen or heard from him in about ten years. The strongest (and best?) memories I have of him are few: in high school in the early 90s, he used a ridiculously expensive shampoo to make his hair feel soft. He was in a terrible car accident, and a few of us visited him in the hospital, where he waxed poetic about how wonderful Demerol was, then later yelled at us because “nobody came to visit him”. And then there was the time he shot me in the eye with a BB gun.

We weren’t close, to say the least, and lost touch after high school. But, I went to his funeral. It was sad and solemn, and he was buried as a soldier. It was the first time that I’d understood what funerals were really about: connecting with old friends over memories of the deceased and laughing about what a jerk he could be. Realizing, far too late, that I never really knew him. I probably would never have seen any of that group again if Mike hadn’t shot himself.

In Calypso, David Sedaris gets that mixture right: sad, tragic and poignant, while observing the absurdity around him, making motifs of death — aging, illness, addiction, suicide — funny between the tears. He combines these themes in a way that feels sacrilegious and blasphemous and wrong, but natural and real, and a celebration of the life that was or is being lost. Just like laughing at a funeral.

My first exposure to Sedaris’ work was When We Are Engulfed in Flames. As my introduction to his style of essays, it was a shocking start, a study in the twisted and macabre that was somehow beautiful and hilarious. I was an instant fan. I still regret lending it to a coworker, who never gave it back.

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