The Brooklyn Rail

John burst upon Portland, Oregon’s early 1990s literary scene in ways that annoyed some but endeared him to others. He was over the top, irrepressible. Loud. He’d arrive noisily for a coffee date and I’d say, “John, could you maybe turn it down a notch?” He’d reply, unruffled, “I have to do things the Neapolitan way. La bella figura!”

He was everything a book critic ought to be. Interested—he sought out the works of challenging, morally penetrating authors like Jenny Erpenbeck. Generous—he wouldn’t pan a book just to show off his chops. Helpful—he put in a kind word for me with more than one editor. And he believed that if you can write, you really, really ought to.

As we get older, our friends start to die and we’re sad, but we have no trouble accepting that this one is gone, and that one is gone. With John, it’s different. How could he possibly not be with us any longer? In ten or fifteen years I’ll still be surprised.