Abigail Thomas
Who could possibly make describing the contents of her ottoman compelling reading? Who besides Abigail Thomas, anyway?
In Still Life at Eighty Abigail Thomas, my favorite memoirist, reflects on aging . . . memory; death and dying; her past, present, and future. Of writing she says, “what was once a pleasure is now hard work, and the results are discouraging. Does this happen to all of us?”
In not quite chapters, not quite diary entries, Thomas grapples with isolation not only born of decreasing mobility and motivation, but pandemic social distancing. When the last of her original dog pack, Carolina, passes in the night, Thomas supposes she is the actual last of the pack and confronts her own mortality head on.
“The house where I live is comfortable. But it is becoming clear that my real dwelling place weighs about 175 pounds. Its hair is turning gray. It smokes and coughs. I feel terrible for this residence whose lease may soon be up. The dogs and I went to bed, all of us subdued. I stare up at the stars, dead for eons, their ancient light still traveling.”
Thomas’ memoir fearlessly pokes at the unknowable while exploring how she became the person she is. And somehow invites us all to do the same.