I was very sad (still am) to hear of the death of Anthony Bourdain. He could see through bullshit, and he could write the truth clearly and elegantly. Many hoped (still do) to be a bit more like him. He will be sorely missed.
“Bourdain felt like your brother, your rad uncle, your impossibly cool dad—your realest, smartest friend, who wandered outside after beers at the local one night and ended up in front of some TV cameras and decided to stay there.”
“He was not just a good writer, but an extraordinary writer, and I strongly urge anyone who hasn’t read Kitchen Confidential to read it. He was a fun guy to hang out with, and generous to a fault. I’m really going to miss the crazy sunnuvabitch.”
“He told you what you already felt, in better, more gorgeous, and simpler words than any you could summon. My heart hurts today for the loss of someone who could recognize the ragged, gorgeous divinity of a Waffle House at three a.m., and make it more luminous while telling not one single lie.”
“I spend a lot of my life — maybe even most of my life these days — in hotels. And it can be a grim and dispiriting feeling, waking up, at first unsure of where you are, what language they’re speaking outside. The room looks much the same as other rooms. TV. Coffee maker on the desk. Complimentary fruit basket rotting on the table. The familiar suitcase.
All too often, particularly in America, I’ll walk to the window and draw back the curtains, looking to remind myself where I might be —and it doesn’t help at all. The featureless, anonymous skyline that greets me is much the same as the previous city’s and the city before that.”