Volume 19, Number 1 · July 20, 1972
E. W. 1895–1972
By Jason Epstein
Occasionally, as his death became imminent, I would find myself, most unwillingly, imagining Edmund Wilson's funeral. It would be at a hilltop cemetery in Wellfleet in spring or early fall. The sky would be clear and the sea, through tall grass and bent pines, would be blue in the distant curve of the Truro beaches. There would be a circle of family and friends—about twenty or so—and, as I imagined the scene, I would stand just outside this ring so that I could see the drawn shoulders and bent backs of the mourners. It was a sentimental picture that kept coming to mind, something that a forgotten expressionist might have painted years ago.
Feature, 3071 words
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