In memoriam: Bruce Jay Friedman

Bruce Jay Friedman in 1967. Photo: Sam Falk/The New York Times.

You hear an awful lot about the “fading line between fantasy and reality” in the modern world and I had better put that in fast or else I am not going to get to do any more Forewords. So here it comes. I agree. There is a fading line between fantasy and reality, a very fading line, a goddamned, almost invisible line … Then, too, if you are alive today, and stick your head out of doors now and then, you know that there is a nervousness, a tempo, a near-hysterical new beat in the air, a punishing isolation and loneliness of a strange, frenzied new kind. It is in the music and the talk and the films and the theater and it is in the prose style of Joe Heller and Terry Southern. You can find it in Gogol and Isaac Babel, too, and perhaps they saw it all coming. …

What has happened is that the satirist has had his ground usurped by the newspaper reporter. The journalist, who, in the year 1964, must cover the ecumenical debate on whether Jews, on the one hand, are still to be known as Christ-killers, or, on the other hand are to be let off the hook, is certainly today’s satirist. The novelist-satirist, with no real territory of his own to roam, has had to discover new land, invent a new currency, a new set of filters, has had to sail into darker waters somewhere out beyond satire and I think this is what is meant by black humor.

–Bruce Jay Friedman
Foreword, Black Humor (1965)

Those words from one of the greats, Bruce Jay Friedman, who sailed into rather different waters yesterday at the age of 90. He knew us then, and he certainly knows us today; see, especially, his story “Black Angels,” published in the December 1, 1964, issue of Esquire.

Bruce Weber’s obituary for the writer can be found in the New York Times here.

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