[David] Ferry over lunch, before a reading we gave at the Harvard Advocate. Hummus, coffee, whiz-kid undergraduates. The table falls momentarily silent. Munching, sipping, the back of a spoon rocking on a wooden table. Ferry speaks up: "I actually died six weeks ago." All munching and sipping is suspended. What? "I was dead for a number of minutes. I don't remember it, because I wasn't there. So you see, I bring no messages from beyond the grave." For Ferry, "bewildered" to the end and even beyond the end, this, of course, is the message.from The New Yorker: David Ferry's Beautiful Thefts
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