The abrupt absence of my friend of fifty years is preying on me, nearly two weeks after his death. Irving Louis Horowitz died March 21 after complications from heart surgery. He leaves behind his dear and sweet and brilliant wife, Mary Curtis.
Irving befriended me and Karen at Stanford, lo, these many years ago. He remained a faithful prod, booster, critic, and guide right until his death. He had put into the mail his newest book on Hannah Arendt (in whose name he held a chair at Rutgers) just days before he died. I had no idea he was going into the hospital. His last letter informed me that he had put the latest book of mine into production. His letter was as vigorous and ambitious and energetic as always.
#more#I doubt if any of his writers sympathized with the work of everybody else on the list. Maybe not even Irving did. The thing was, if it deepened the sense of truth and critical realism in the common American mind, it belonged on his list.
Irving Louis Horowitz is a model of the man who seeks the truth, the whole truth, and who is restless with truths too uncritically accepted. He was a born demolisher of illusions. Everybody’s illusions.
Easier said than done, Mary. Easier said than done.
The Lord God be with you, Irving, and Mary, and the fractious legions who are in your debt.