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I loved Franz Wright

I loved Franz Wright. He didn’t always make that easy. While our particular friendship never descended into quarrel and abuse, other friends, mutual friends, were treated unjustly to his huge spells of anger; my sympathy for them often retarded my admiration for him. One knew that mental illness and addiction released that anger, fueled lifelong by a hugely unhappy childhood, and one also knew that for every bridge he burned Franz eventually built a new one, often repairing friendships that had seemed irremediably damaged. When he arrived at Oberlin, a shy and tentative undergraduate, it didn’t take long to realize that he was nourishing and rapidly developing an immense poetic talent. I did what I could to give it room and encouragement, but I was scarcely alone. Oberlin was full of poets, students and faculty, to whom he could and did turn, people who could interact with his passion and growth. Over the years there has been a remarkable consistency, of style and insight. Here is early Wright, still an undergraduate: