On the death of a 19 year old

On Feb 16, James Li, a freshman passed away after being struck by a train. On Feb 20, I learned about this news when I was taking a break at work. I was so deeply shocked by this news that I had to take a moment to collect myself.

I was shocked not because I knew this person in any way but because I knew his mother, Yiyun Li, as a great writer. James was her second son, and her first son, Vincent, killed himself at a similar age, in a similar manner. One might speculate that James also committed suicide, although it was never mentioned in the news; however, it would only be a reasonable assumption. It’s very unfair to James, but my thoughts immediately turned to Yiyun. Considering her own history with suicide and the death of her first son, I couldn’t fathom what kind of pain this would inflict on her.

After the death of her first son, Yiyun wrote a book about an imaginary conversation with her deceased son. She then wrote numerous stories featuring similar characters - mothers who have lost their children at a young age. These mothers, like all the other characters in her stories, are baffled but they hold their ground. They pose questions that remain unanswered. There is no melodrama in the writing but you can’t help but admit life itself brings melodrama along.

The first book from Yiyun I have ever read is Dear Friend, from My Life I Write to You in Your Life. At the time, I had to take a month off from work due to extreme mental frustration. Everyday I woke up and made decisions on which park I should be going to. I recall that it was at Seward Park, seated on the bench by the lake with Mt. Rainier peeking through the trees, where I began reading. Later, I moved to the opposite side of the park, stretched out on the grass and continued reading.

It was likely the first book I ever read that delved deeply into the topic of death, and it came at a time when thoughts of self-harm and death occupied my mind frequently. Before this, I, like the majority of people, never questioned the choice of living. Living is a choice. If you are not choosing death, then you are choosing life. It’s akin to deciding whether to switch jobs; if you’re not actively choosing to switch, then you’re choosing to stay. Just like the decisions in life that one has to make, outside of life, there is always another decision to make.

Many say, what a shame. James was such an intelligent individual, his future full of possibilities. Would it not be a shame if James wasn’t as smart, didn’t attend Princeton, couldn’t comprehend six languages, had the worst personalities or had no friends at all? Death is the only thing that’s fair. One makes the decision and one can never look back.

I wished then and I wish now that I had never formed an attachment to anyone in the world either. I would be all kindness. I would not have done anything ruinous. I would never have to ask that question—when will I ever be good enough for you?—because by abolishing you, the opposite of I, I could erase that troublesome I from my narrative, too. – Amongst People

There is also death within life. To be dead is to feel nothing, to silence the external and internal arguments, and to no longer bear the heavy weight that is life. That’s probably what I truly mean when I express thoughts of dying. The contemplation of death seldom revolves around the event itself. For me, it is the urge to disappear and hide. Erasing the “troublesome I”. I long for the eternal peace that death brings. There were too many noises, too many opinions and too many expectations. And there was one choice I could make to rid myself of them, for good. To me, it’s more of a consolation than temptation. The thought of it soothes me.

The news of the death of a 19-year-old brought me memories and emotions. And I know it’s never the same any more. I have come to recognize an important possibility, and it will always remain in the back of my mind.