I am reading the obituaries that have flooded in after the death of the writer Paul Auster. Strangely, he is not someone I’ve ever read. Instead, I’ve spent countless hours poring over the sordid and tragic story of his son Daniel. It’s so outsized in its details that one can’t help think that the trajectory of his life was an awful balancing against the storied lives of his family.

Daniel was either going to fade into obscurity or flame out. Which he did spectacularly. And why does it titillate me so? Perhaps it’s straight up envy. I’m relieved that even the beautiful people must contend with ugliness.