Aaron Swartz was an extraordinarily dear friend; I have no idea what to say about his suicide. But this is what I did say in my eulogy for him at his funeral yesterday, scribbled out on the flight to Chicago.
Aaron is the first person I’ve loved who has died. I bought this suit at the mall on my way to the airport. Which means this is also my first funeral. And it’s the first time I’ve had to figure out how to remember someone. Since Taren called me with the news, I’ve been compulsively reading blog posts, trying to escape into other people’s thoughts and memories of Aaron. But none of them seem to fit.
When you love someone, when you look up to them, at first you don’t really know what you’re doing and you’re just drawn to them, kind of the way plants are drawn toward light. You grow towards them, toward their ideals, toward what they represent—or at least, what you want them to represent. And then if you’re very, very lucky, eventually—unlike a plant—you arrive, you reach them. And all of a sudden