A good friend died recently. We met long ago at the presentation of the Priem Prize for short stories, an initiative of Amersfoort publisher Nico Denhoorn. My friend won; I got the incentive prize. Afterwards, Maarten van Rozendaal performed.
We kept in touch, throwing stories at each other through the letterbox (email did not yet exist). We also read together a few times: in a café in Harderwijk, the Arnhem theatre, the Winternachtfestival in The Hague. He was more successful with writing than I was and published stories in Hollands Maandblad and Playboy, among others; the same issue featured nude photos of Isa Hoes.
My friend informed me of his decision to stop writing prose. There was no dry bread to be earned from it. Going forward, he went through life as a freelance journalist and lyricist. The money he earned he spent on music festivals; Roskilde was his favourite. My Spotify playlist is three-quarters filled with tips I got from him. Arcade Fire, Sigur Ros, Beth Gibson, Anthony and the Johnsons: without him, they wouldn't have existed for me.
The love of literature perpetuated our bond of friendship. Haruki Murikami was a common hero. The wind-up bird chronicles topped his oeuvre, we passionately agreed. Followed by Kafka on the beach and the IQ84 trilogy. Norwegian Wood Was Murikami-light, not for the real fans.
The last book he read was Grand Hotel Europa By Ilja Leonard Pfeijffer. My friend could no longer walk, lay on his bed and enjoyed it intensely. If ever I got the confirmation that art makes life worth living, it was then.
Last night I listened to a radio interview with Christien Oele, aka VanWyk. In between talking, she played two songs from her new CD God is in the Detour. I wanted to app my friend that he desperately needed to listen to VanWyk and then saw the futility of it.
Death is a phone number erased from your mobile phone.
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