Thomas M. Disch died on July 4th, 2008, of suicide. His house in upstate New York was infected with mould (the pipes had burst during the winter). His partner had colon cancer and the illness had bankrupted them both. His partner, dead, was the official tenant of their rent-controlled apartment. The landlord won the case he'd brought to evict Disch, who was not the official tenant. Disch himself had diabetes.
He shot himself.
(The last line of 334)
It would be nice to say that my horror was civilized outrage at the mistreatment of another. It wasn't. None of the horror throughout the SF community was. We all made that swift reptilian calculation – if this can happen to Disch, the genius, how can the rest of us do any better? (How many times have I joked – seriously – about shooting myself because that's my only retirement plan? How many times have I thought of murder-suicide when the partner's diagnosis hits, as it must – or even mine, God knows I worshipped at the tobacco-flame long enough – because we have no means of paying for long-term care?)
I nearly emailed my old SF buddy, but had a feeling he was aghast at the same understanding: this is the legislatively-mandated murder of people like us.
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