Claudia Rosett sent me a note saying: “If he’s dead, how fitting that he died in France.”
To which I responded: Yes, but how ironic that he dies in bed.
She rejoined: “Or maybe how perfectly hypocritical and corrupt, to the very end.
“Symbolically, it’s sort of hideously beautiful. It would have delighted Balzac. A killer billionaire dies in a Paris bed …having abandoned in his final hours the nest he fouled so thoroughly that he himself, in his final hours, instead of choosing to die in the place he said he’d give his life for, went off to France to croak in comfort.”