GLR September-October 2025

IN MEMORIAM Remembrances of Edmund White (1940–2025)

me, sadly—perhaps unaware of the rather heavy atmosphere he was creating. To shift the mood, I asked how his latest book, The Loves of My Life , was doing. “You know,” he said, “some readers love my books, and others don’t. Do you remember the guy who tore into Hotel de Dream ?” Of course I did—the book had moved me deeply, and I’d sent Edmund a warm and admiring email. He replied immediately, saying how much it meant to him—how comforting and encouraging my message had been, a balm for his soul. He’d just read a scathing review that had shaken him. “It was the most cruel and devastating review of my life,” he wrote. “What else are you working on?” I asked. “I have a new book coming out in January,” he said. “Right now I’m working on a bi ography of the brother of King Louis XIV of France.” In a low, mischievous voice full of innuendo, he began to explain teasingly what I already knew: “You know, he dressed as a woman—with all the accessories. He was married twice, had children, had lovers and a mistress!” He especially emphasized “and a mis tress!” laughing uproariously—and of course I joined him. “Are you still a Lesbian?” was his favorite joke—a ques tion he’d ask me every year, just to see if I was still going to the island of Lesbos for the summer. Then he began reminiscing about his summers in Chania, Crete, where he’d stayed in what had been a beautiful governor’s mansion (our mutual friend Charles Henri Ford had bought a house in the same town): “The mansion was lovely, and had a courtyard. A nice Englishwoman

E DMUND WHITE, a dear friend, died suddenly in his New York apartment on June 3rd after suffering from a gastroenteritis infection. He was 85. He’d written more than a dozen works of fiction, four plays, numerous essays, and biographies of Arthur Rimbaud and Mar cel Proust. His “magnificent” biography of Jean Genet, as crit ics called it, earned him the Pulitzer Prize. He received many other honors as well, including the National Book Foundation’s Medal for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters, at least two Lambda Literary Awards, and the rank of Officer in the Order of Arts and Letters from the French government. A devoted philhellene, he visited my country several times and spent three or four summers in Crete. I met him in New York in 2002 and we became friends im mediately—unsurprisingly, since we shared many acquain tances. He was charming, soft-spoken, modest, kind, and often quietly ironic, with a sharp wit. A true cosmopolitan, he was a leading citizen of the gay community, which saw him as an icon. With his novel A Boy’s Own Story in 1982, he launched a trilogy that would become the iconic coming out story for a generation. He lived on 22nd Street in Chelsea—an area I often visited because the gallery I worked with was nearby. His apartment was small, fairly tidy, and, like most writers’ homes, crammed with books. The walls were covered with small paintings and photographs. During my stays in New York, we would mostly meet at the local Greek restaurants, which had the best food. Over time, Edmund, who was never the athletic type, began gaining weight, and in 2012 he suffered two strokes. Not long after, in 2014, he had a heart attack. Not having seen him since before the pandemic, I visited Ed on May 21st—a gray, chilly day with a light drizzle. His hus band, Michael Carroll, opened the door. Edmund was sitting right by the entrance in the dining room, which he used as a study. The living room now looked less orderly, filled with even more books, photos, and all kinds of objects. Despite his health problems, he was in good spirits—cheerful and welcoming. He could no longer walk and relied on Michael’s help. Before I could sit down, he said: “Go inside, straight down the hall. In the bedroom you’ll see your photograph— TheBoy with the Fishes .” Out of modesty, I hesitated, but he insisted on showing me how much he appreciated me. So I went, thanking him. When I returned, he was on the phone. He explained to the caller that he had a visitor and promised to call back later. After he hung up, he said to me: “He’s a student of mine from the Philippines. He wanted to kill himself—he’s heartbroken, and now he’s all alone, without friends. I’ll talk to him later.” Before I left, the young man had called back three or four times. Then Edmund showed me the latest book by the great Chi nese writer Yiyun Li, who had stopped by earlier and given it to him as a gift. “Two of her sons have committed suicide,” he told D IMITRIS Y EROS Last Meeting with a Friend

September–October 2025

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