Dear Mr. and Mrs. Waletzky and Naomi,

I'm writing to you about Jacob. I was a classmate of his at Columbia; we met in a seminar on different writers' visions of America. I came to Columbia with a lot of insecurity about my writing and how I was going to fare with a student body that was older, more privileged and better educated than I was. I comforted myself with the thought that even if I couldn't write better, I could certainly beat any and all of them in a fight. Then, the second class meeting, Jacob showed up in what was to become classic Jacob style: late, his hair flying, carrying only a well-thumbed copy of the book. He held forth with such casual confidence and poise and such well-read criticism that I was sure he was a second year, which was little consolation because I knew I wasn't going to be able to get my brains or my biceps as big as his in only a year. His intellect was incredibly intimidating not just because of the sheer horsepower of his brain, but because he had obviously spent virtually all of his life up to that point reading almost everything in the Western canon and far beyond. It aggravated me; in dismissing a book we read, Jacob would reference some arcane book as if it was common ground: "Well, I mean, we've all seen that Eastern European/son a government official/limited omniscient, alternating first and third person narration before, and I think the limitations of that style are apparent." I admired him and was wildly jealous. When, at the end of that first semester, I saw that he and I were to be in the same workshop, I told my girlfriend that I was excited because I was going to be reading the writing of the weird, super-smart guy who had a similarly low opinion of what most of our classmates were writing.

In workshop, we quickly established an antagonistic kinship. Jacob was enchanted by language and, I felt, often sacrificed rhythm and even clarity just so he could trot out a big, flashy word. Boy, did we clash over that. I think we quickly recognized each other as deserving opponents, and our criticism of each other took on a very competitive and even combative edge. I know I wrote as hard as I could with the intention of knocking his socks off, which only happened once (I remember quietly thrilling to a "nice" at the end of a short story, which was effusive criticism from Jacob) and my critiques of his writing were similarly hard. Where I was inclined to let other people off the hook because it didn't seem like even good, tough criticism would save their writing, there was real genius concealed behind the problems in Jacob's writing and, consequently, I gave it to him with both barrels. For about three or four weeks, we argued about the correct usage of the word 'vintage'; I argued that it referred specifically to one year, Jacob said it referred to a group of years. We never resolved it, but as trivial as it was, the argument wasn't dropped; it was acknowledged as a difference between us which, though serious, we had agreed not to let interfere with our friendship.

As we warmed up to each other, our conversations began to timidly venture out of the safe realm of writing and into our personal lives, which we were both reluctant and compelled to discuss. We shared a fondness for oblivion, which surfaced in our writing, and also the same twenty-something existential malaise, a growing feeling of discontent with oneself and one's life which didn't jibe with the talents we had and the general upward trend of our lives. We both knew that, as needlessly angry young men enamored with drugs and alcohol, we were treading a well-worn, even clichéed path, and so I think we were embarrassed to talk about the genuine dark moments that accompanied it. I was talking with Daniel Wein, another of Jacob's friends in the program the other day and I said something about how Jacob, for all his gifts, had a very low self opinion, was very angry and insecure, was full of self hatred. Daniel said "I know. That's what I liked about him." He wasn't being ironic. Jacob wrote in his novel "There's nothing tragic about a young man who hasn't yet established himself as an artist," and I know that's true (I cut out the quote and put it on the edge of my computer monitor!) and I know that Jacob knew it was true, but it's very hard to always remain convinced that it's true. It's difficult to reconcile a life that's full of worth to an inner feeling of worthlessness; somehow, too, the better the life gets, the deeper the sense of worthlessness. At best it's a moot point; Jacob couldn't solve the riddle and I haven't solved it here and I probably won't, but I intend to survive it. What I'm trying to say (his presence as a critic was formidable; even now, I write knowing that he would eviscerate the structure of this letter) is that Jacob and I shared a very deep feeling for each other. In trying to pin that feeling down, I keep returning to words revolving around family, like 'kinship' and 'brother,' and words about the shared experience of combat like 'comrade' and 'compatriot.' One of the things I admired so much about Jacob was that he was ruthlessly humble and ruthlessly hard on himself. Being with Jacob, certainly in class and talking about our struggles with relationships and substances, but also eating together and simply just hanging out, I felt implicitly understood.

We didn't hang out over the summer but we became increasingly tight over the fall semester in thesis workshop together. Our friendship survived Jacob's scathing review of a barely fictionalized account of a painful breakup with my girlfriend and my increasing frustration with Jacob's novel. Again and again I called him to task for just re-writing over and over the same sections and not writing anything new, but mostly I really dug into him for failing to engage any emotions beyond bitterness and sarcasm in his work. My mother lives on St. John and we made plans to meet up there over the Christmas break, but I never got a call from him.

I ran into him in the library at the beginning of the spring semester and finally, finally, finally, the veil dropped. I asked him how his break had been and he admitted it hadn't been great. I asked him why and he hedged, in classic Jacob form: "Well, the social mores of New York dictate that it's not polite to talk about personal difficulties in…" I told him to cut the shit, and he 'fessed up that he'd been in rehab. Instantly, it made sense and, instantly, we got a lot closer. This past semester, we spent time together at least two or three days a week, I gave him the title of a book that had helped me dry out in the past, I gave him my pager number and told him to call me when he was feeling a craving, I called him whenever I didn't hear from him for a couple of days; when he backslid, I dragged him into an empty classroom and gave him hell for an hour (I debated punching him in the face to impress upon him the seriousness of the situation—would this have made the difference?-- but I remembered the damage he'd suffered in his bike accident and I was more than a little worried he might just punch me back). I told him flat out that he was going to die if he continued the way he had been. The only thing I didn't do, which he urged me to do, was to go to meetings with him, and though I'm trying hard not to torture myself with hindsight, I feel like this may have been the thing that would have made the difference. The last time I saw him was in a bar after my thesis reading. He left early to avoid temptation. I stayed late that night and missed his reading the next night because I had to work at another bar. Then we played phone tag for the next two weeks; I still have a message from him on my voicemail that I got on the Friday before he overdosed.

I really thought he was going to be okay, he was pulling out of the dark existentialist labyrinth he had thought himself into, his attitude was changing, he looked great. He even broke through a lot of the problems in his writing; his last story, "Combustion," was so fresh and so fully realized, I called him at home after reading it to congratulate him; it was as if it had been written by a different person. There was humor and danger in it, but also heart and to a great degree, hope.

The loss of Jacob has left me a little crazy. It's still so fresh, it seems retrievable, like I could just have called him back more often, or gone to a meeting with him, or done any one of a million things and any one of them would have changed the outcome. It's an ending that Jacob would have despised. I never got my last critique from him, we just couldn't seem to connect. So I wrote it for him, in his voice, but in criticism of the recent events. I hope it makes sense to you. I've also included some of my favorite comments from his reviews of my work; most of them somewhat less than positive, all of them Jacob in his prime. I've also included a book. My grief has already led me down some strange roads; what you are dealing with right now, I can't imagine. When I was fifteen, I was unfortunate enough to lose a friend in a shooting. His father wrote Goneboy about dealing with his son's death, his grief, and his son's murderer. I hope that it brings you some comfort. My heart is with you all and of course, with Jacob.


Best,

Mishka Shubaly