Bright, brief spark: Marina Keegan, who died in 2012. Image: Facebook.
Show Hide image

Grief in the conditional tense: the short, brilliant life of Marina Keegan

By twenty-two she had reached millions, written for the New York Times and campaigned for Obama. But then tragedy struck.

In a recent issue of the New Yorker there is a picture of a girl – tall, moon-faced, beautiful – wearing a yellow raincoat. The girl is smiling. The image is part of an advertisement for a new book, The Opposite of Loneliness, a collection of essays and short stories by the American wunderkind Marina Keegan.

In 2011, Keegan wrote an essay called “Even Artichokes Have Doubts”, in which she lamented the unthinking march of Ivy League graduates into jobs on Wall Street. The piece caught the attention of the business reporter Kevin Roose, who commissioned her to write about the subject for the New York Times. Internships at the Paris Review and the New Yorker followed. Keegan was destined for great things.

On graduating from Yale University in 2012, the 22-year-old published a short piece in a special edition of the Yale Daily News, handed out to students on their final day at university. When it was published online, it became an instant hit, racking up 1.4 million views.

“We have these impossibly high standards and we’ll probably never live up to our perfect fantasies of our future selves,” she wrote. “But I feel like that’s OK. We’re so young. We’re so young. We’re 22 years old.”

Five days after graduating, on 26 May 2012, Marina died in a car crash on the edge of Cape Cod. She was travelling to her father’s 55th birthday when her boyfriend lost control of the vehicle.

“High on their posthumous pedestals, the dead become hard to see,” writes Anne Fadiman, one of Keegan’s writing tutors at Yale, in her introduction to The Opposite of Loneliness, which is published this month. “Marina wouldn’t want to be remembered because she’s dead. She would want to be remembered because she’s good.”

And she is. Another journalist stunned by Keegan’s early promise was Jack Hitt, who invited her to work with him on the popular Chicago-based podcast This American Life. He recalls meeting her at a coffee shop in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and being “elated by a rare feeling – the certainty that I had met a future associate, someone I would enjoy knowing and reading for the rest of my life”.

The response across the US press followed in a similar vein: an acute professional grief, expressed in the conditional tense. Alice Gregory, reviewing the book in the New Republic, seemed haunted by it. “We would have followed each other on Twitter, chatted at parties, been fellow recipients on CC-ed email chains about sublets and birthday parties,” she wrote, initially questioning whether the book should have been published.

Who would wish to see their juvenilia (some of which was written while the author was still at school) extracted from their laptop and made public? Writers outgrow their words. The dust jacket – as featured in the New Yorker advertisement – becomes difficult to look at.

Marina Keegan was an extraordinary figure, a young person of enormous potential who had already achieved a great deal. She campaigned for Obama in 2008 and organised for the Occupy movement. Her play Utility Monster was staged on the first anniversary of her death. “[She] was an activist,” the literary critic Harold Bloom told the Boston Globe. “She had not only ethos and logos – high character and intelligence – but the deepest kind of pathos as well.”

Throughout the 18 pieces in the collection, that pathos is delivered with a striking emotional intensity, in sharp and witty prose. Keegan doesn’t shirk her youthful naivety but makes a weapon of it, insisting that we question our choices and look ahead, no matter our age.

Philip Maughan is a freelance writer in Berlin and a former Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 01 May 2014 issue of the New Statesman, The Islam issue

Show Hide image

How the radio stations reacted to Bob Dylan's Nobel Prize

For its part, Radio 1 was too absorbed by the Duke of Edinburgh’s Awards to mention the proclamation on Newsbeat.

Bob Dylan’s Nobel Prize in Literature inspired a bewildering gamut of radio responses. At first, proof of his talent was abundantly forthcoming, Andy Kershaw yelling down the line for World at One from a motorway services on the M6 within ­moments of the announcement. (“I can’t understand why they didn’t give this to him 41 years ago!”)

However, a full six days after Talk Radio excitedly reported the event on its home page (“a pivotal part of the cultural revolution of the 1960s”), the online feature has yet to attract a single comment. That’s zero talk. For its part, Radio 1 was too absorbed by the Duke of Edinburgh’s Awards to mention the proclamation on Newsbeat, though Heart FM firmly quoted the chair of the English faculty at Oxford (“The Tennyson of our time”), and pencil-suckingly dissected lyrics (“Ain’t talkin’, just walkin’/ Up the road . . .”).

Is it poetry? Is it literature? You could tell it was doing everybody’s head in. But when, on Radio 4’s Front Row, Billy Bragg praised Dylan for “bringing a literary and poetic thread into pop music”, the argument sounded terribly old.

The whole battle about Dylan being as great a poet as Tennyson is a hangover from an ancient battle, from a time when it actually had to be pointed out that this pop-music stuff can be brilliant and clever. A time when boring people battled for respect and prestige for an obvious genius. Over on Radio 2, Mark Goodier cheerfully played “Tangled Up in Blue” (“Major, major prize for Bob today. If that isn’t a decent excuse to play a song, I don’t know what is”). But by Sunday, on Radio 4’s Broadcasting House, the gloves were off and guests were declaring that they couldn’t stand Dylan’s voice (cliché, pathetic).

By Monday Simon Armitage was saying that Dylan’s lyrics had no more sophistication than something composed by a child. Is it poetry? Is it literature? Well, it kind of is. But it kind of isn’t. And it doesn’t matter very much, except to the likes of Dylan – and only a long, long time ago. Now he hardly requires the approbation. The Nobel Committee has given the prize to the one writer in the world who doesn’t need it. 

Antonia Quirke is an author and journalist. She is a presenter on The Film Programme and Pick of the Week (Radio 4) and Film 2015 and The One Show (BBC 1). She writes a column on radio for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 20 October 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Brothers in blood