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Life Interrupted: The Unfinished Monologue

Life Interrupted: The Unfinished Monologue

by Spalding Gray

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As the first decade of the new century was getting underway, Spalding Gray worried that the joy he’d finally found with his wife, stepdaughter, and two sons would fail to fuel his work as a theatrical monologist the way anxiety, conflict, doubt, and various crises once had. Before he got the chance to find out, however, an automobile accident in Ireland left him


As the first decade of the new century was getting underway, Spalding Gray worried that the joy he’d finally found with his wife, stepdaughter, and two sons would fail to fuel his work as a theatrical monologist the way anxiety, conflict, doubt, and various crises once had. Before he got the chance to find out, however, an automobile accident in Ireland left him with the lasting wounds of body and spirit that ultimately led him to take his own life. But as his dear friend novelist Francine Prose notes in this volume’s foreword, “Even when his depression became so severe that he was barely able to hold a simple conversation, he was, miraculously, able to perform.”

As was always his method, Gray began to fashion a new monologue in various workshop settings that would tell the story of the accident and its aftermath. Originally titled Black Spot—for what the locals called the section of highway where Gray’s accident occurred—it began as a series of workshops at P.S. 122 in New York City and eventually became Life Interrupted.Gray died in early 2004, and though never completed, Life Interrupted is rich with brave self-revelation, masterfully acute observations of wonderfully peculiar people, penetrating wit and genuine humor, an irresolvable fascination with life and death, and all the other attributes of Gray’s singular and unmistakable voice.

In the final performance of Life Interrupted, Gray read two additional pieces: a short story about a day he spent with his son Theo at the carousel in Central Park and a brief, poignant love letter to New York City that he wrote after the terrorist attacks in 2001. This volume includes these pieces as well as many of the eulogies that were delivered by his friends and family at memorial services held at Lincoln Center and in Sag Harbor.

[If you had to reduce all of Spalding’s work to its essence, its core, if you wanted to locate the subject to which, no matter what else he talked about, he kept returning, I suppose you could say that his work was a profoundly metaphysical inquiry into how we manage to live despite the knowledge that we are someday going to die. . . .

If there is a consolation, it’s what he left behind: the children whom he so loved and, of course, his work. Reading the unfinished pieces in this volume . . . we hear his voice again and feel the happiness we felt when he sat on stage behind his wooden desk, took a sip from his water glass, transformed the raw material of his life into art, and the crowd applauded each brilliant, beautiful sentence.] —Francine Prose, from the Foreword

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From the Hardcover edition.

Editorial Reviews

Charles Isherwood
Life Interrupted is the agonizing and pleasurable result, a coda to Gray's oeuvre that would be hard to read were it not so fine an example of his singular storytelling gifts. It is grim, but continually enlivened by Gray's keen, dry humor and his relish for relating the strange workings of the mind as it processes experience.
— The New York Times
Publishers Weekly
Monologist and writer Gray committed suicide in 2004 after a protracted bout with mental illness. Before he died, he had been at work on Life Interrupted, a monologue about the aftermath of a horrific car accident he suffered while traveling in Ireland. Gray is replaced here by legendary playwright and actor Shepard, who provides a gravelly dignity to Gray's ruminations on illness and death. Shepard does a nice job of pausing between sentences, as if thinking of how best to describe his conundrum. Shepard is joined by novelist Francine Prose, who reads her own lengthy tribute to Gray and eulogies for Gray by figures including filmmaker Aviva Kempner, Gray's stepdaughter Marisa and his widow, Kathleen Russo. Their tributes, given at the time of his death, are far less polished than Gray's own monologue, but as homespun expressions of love and affection in the aftermath of his death, are perhaps the most affecting aspect of this well-wrought tribute to Gray's legacy. Not-so-simultaneous release with the Crown hardcover (Reviews, Aug 1, 2005). (June) Copyright 2006 Reed Business Information.
Library Journal
Approximately four years ago, actor/monologist Gray and his wife, Kathie, were seriously injured in a car accident in Ireland. While his physical wounds were grave, his mental ones were even graver: after suffering three years of severe depression, he committed suicide in March 2004. Life Interrupted, Gray's work in progress at the time of his death, is the story of the accident and the bizarre near-Monty Pythonish time he spent in an Irish hospital. Like his other works (e.g., Swimming to Cambodia), the monolog is written with a New Englander's wry sense of humor, only this time there is an underlying current of white-hot anger at the fates that robbed the author of health and self-confidence. Also included are a short story and a love letter to New York City that Gray read at his final performance. Then, wrenchingly, the book ends with eulogies that were delivered at services held in Gray's memory. Recommended for all collections, particularly those that have Gray's other volumes.-Larry Schwartz, Minnesota State Univ. Lib., Moorhead Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
The late monologist's last work, heavily reliant on eulogies delivered by friends and family at two memorial services conducted after his 2004 suicide. "Unfinished" may be the key word to describe both Gray's life and this book. Gray committed suicide at age 62 by leaping off the Staten Island Ferry into frigid New York Harbor. But that was just the last of many suicide attempts after a terrible car accident in Ireland in June 2001 left his body and spirit broken. In the title 40-page essay, Gray recounts with typical mordancy the accident and his subsequent hospitalizations in both Ireland and New York. The volume also includes a 10-page essay written on the tenth anniversary of his first meeting his wife, Kathy Russo. The majority of the book consists of recollections and tributes delivered at two separate memorial services-one at Lincoln Center, the other in his hometown of Sag Harbor, N.Y. Those paying tribute included his widow, his older brother, Rockwell Gray and fellow performers Eric Bogosian, Laurie Anderson and Eric Stoltz. Some of those are moving and revelatory. Others are less so, at times bordering on the platitudinous. Particularly touching are the recollections of Gray's teenaged stepdaughter Marissa, describing her struggle to live with the suicidal, broken man her father became after the car accident. Another comes from fellow author Roger Rosenblatt, who noted of Gray: "No one ever could be so sublimely miserable." The portrait of Gray that emerges is one of an adventurous, open-hearted, troubled soul who spent his life searching for "the perfect moment." This, he apparently never found. But this book makes us miss his easy-going wit, already preserved in previouspersonal essays like "Swimming to Cambodia."Readers shouldn't be blamed for feeling misled and slightly cheated by a book marketed as a Spalding Gray title, when only a fraction consists of his own words.

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Read an Excerpt

Life Interrupted

I didn't think there'd be another monologue, and I'm still not sure if there is. I had settled down into domesticity and a quiet life out in Sag Harbor and didn't want to continue making family soap opera. Or at least I thought I didn't.

When I turned sixty there was no big celebration, just a family gathering. I said I didn't want anything. NPR did announce it on Morning Edition, I was happy to hear. Garrison Keillor did not, on his birthday show. We're not exactly on the best of terms. I reviewed a book of his called Leaving Home in the New York Times, and I opened with my girlfriend at the time saying that if I played that show Prairie Home Companion again she'd throw the radio out the window.

There was no party, just a birthday dinner at home, and I remember Forrest, my eight-year-old, saying, "Hey, Dad, remember how much fun it was having a birthday before you found out that you were going to die?"

Then there was a surprise. About two weeks after that, Kathie, my wife, gave me a present of a trip to Ireland for the whole family. Kathie's always coming up with these crazy trips. I remember she took us to the Ice Hotel up in Quebec City where you pay three hundred dollars a night to sleep on a block of ice. So Ireland was cushy. It was a rainy version of the Ice Hotel, I suppose. A little more whimsical, and rainy, and not frozen. I'd been six times before and wanted to go back. It made me laugh in a way that the United States doesn't. We had rainy times but good times. In spite of the rain it was a jolly place. I can remember Kathie and me riding bikes in the rain for hours and then coming upon this Irishman leaning against his bicycle with a golf hat on or whatever they wear, and he said, "How are you doing?" I said, "It's just awful weather, it's just awful," and he said, "No, it's not. It hasn't gotten cold yet."

So I like them; they're optimistic and philosophical. They're not industrialized, really-there was no industrial revolution-so they drive pretty haphazardly. They don't have a great relationship to machinery, to say the least. There's a lot of banging around and the roads are very narrow, and they just get in their cars and go, you know they just put the pedal to the metal and they're going everywhere, in all directions.

We were invited to the Scanlon estate. John Scanlon was a publicist, a very big one, in all senses of the word. He was a publicist for Bill Clinton, actually, during the Monica Lewinsky scandal, and he had this huge house in Ireland that he was inviting a group of us over to for this birthday bash. He was a big gourmand, and he perished in front of the TV after a big meal just two weeks before we were supposed to go, just died. His wife said, "Come on over anyway, John would have loved it."

So over we went, in spite of his death, about twelve of us, five children-my niece, my stepdaughter, and my two sons, and Tara Newman's son-and the rest adults, and the house was big enough to accommodate that without any confusion. I have to say that this place, exquisite stone manor that it was, reminded me a little bit of The Shining. It was disconcerting, actually. It was set right in the middle of these woods and fields, and the kids went running in the Þelds with no fear of deer ticks for the Þrst time in a long time. The woods looked like Harry Potter woods; they were very old, it was about twelve acres of land, and all very spooky. It was in the town of Mort, which was even more of a spooky name, in the county of Offaly. O-f-f-a-l-y.

We arrived on the longest day of the year, June 21, 2001, and all went to celebrate with a treasure hunt. In the morning, the following day, the next-longest day of the year, Barbara Leary was down in the kitchen-Barbara Leary was the ex-wife of Timothy Leary and she was one of the guests there-and I was talking with her and she said that she'd dreamt that I'd done a new monologue, and I said, "No, there's nothing on the table, really, nothing new. My life is without crisis and usually they're based on crisis, and I don't have anything planned at all. Things are going smoothly."

(Knocks three times on the desktop)

So off we went to this monastery, and I guess it was kind of the Þrst harbinger of death, although death seemed everywhere in Ireland. This was a monastery on a river where the Vikings used to come and raid it and burn the books and kill the priests. There was a funeral going on, or at least the grave diggers were digging some graves right near the monastery and taking a cigarette break. I remember that, it was kind of Hamletesque.

Then, driving home, another funereal thing happened. They had the funeral announcements on the radio. I'd never heard anything like that in my life. There must have been about sixteen deaths. Every one of them had put up a courageous struggle, had led an exemplary life, never had a bad word to say about anybody. The announcer read in a monotone, with no inflection at all, pausing about five seconds between each name and then talked about the removal time, Saturday at four-thirty, or whenever the body was going to be removed.

So there was a lot of death in the air that day. When we got home, I took a walk to kind of relieve myself of all that, and walked about six miles through dairy country. The cows were baying and mooing. Mad cow disease was around. I had a feeling they were trying to warn me about something. It was the last long walk I'd ever take in my life. I had no idea at the time, did not imagine it. At the end of the walk I came upon a calf that was in real distress. It couldn't stand up, it had arthritis, and it was looking me right in the eye and pleading with me to put it out of its pain. I told the farmer, "That calf is suffering. You should call a vet, or have something done with it." He said, "Ah, yes, I'll be doing that then. Thank you for looking after it."

So off I went thinking I'd saved the calf, or put him out of his misery, and off we went, Þve adults-Barbara Leary and her boyfriend, Kim; Tara Newman; and Kathie and I-to have dinner at John Scanlon's favorite restaurant. I have to say, it wasn't that good. Maybe in terms of Irish cuisine it was, but my duck was dry.

What did we talk about-we talked about the art critic Robert Hughes's car accident that he'd had in Australia, and how difÞcult that would be, to have a car accident in a foreign country like that. Then there was this discussion about who would drive home. We'd all been drinking, not a lot, but Kathie had only had one glass of wine so she was the designated driver. So we're off and she says, "Buckle up," and no one in the back seat pays any attention to her. Tara Newman says, "Yes, Mom," very condescendingly, and I-God, I didn't hear her; Kathie says it's because I don't listen. I just didn't buckle up. I think I was taking a pee in the bushes, a last-minute pee, and I got in and so we're off on a backcountry road. I didn't think anything could possibly happen on a backcountry road. We'd come on a main highway and the speeding was terriÞc, but on the country road I thought it would be . . .

Just about one mile from the mansion-and they say these things happen within a mile of your destination, that's why my friend Donald says that he drives like crazy to get out of that radius-I look up and I see in Kathie's window what looks like a cartoon of a van. It looks like a video game. I can't take it in. We had stopped to turn right, we were still, and the road was a narrow country road, there were no lanes, just a road, and coming at me, at us, was this yellow van. It must have been coming very fast, because all I got was one glimpse of it, its headlights. It was dusk, it was ten-fifteen, and there was this enormous crash that I remember as the most violent moment of my life. It was equal to an earthquake that I'd gone through in California, which had sounded like a bomb.

Our car spun around three times, that's how hard he hit, and he drove the engine right into the front seat of the car, where Kathie burned her arm. Somehow she got out. I thought Kim, who was next to her, was dead. His forehead was down on the dashboard. Tara Newman was yelling, "The car's going to explode. Everyone get out!" I don't remember getting out, but the next I knew I was lying in the road next to Kathie, and she's saying, "I'm dying! I'm dying!" and I'm saying, solipsist that I am, "But I can't straighten out my leg!" And I couldn't. There was a woman kneeling beside me, sopping blood off my face, talking to me, saying that this is a very dangerous black spot, a black spot on the highway where there had been other accidents. She'd lost her nine-year-old son the year before just about a hundred feet from where I was lying. There was cow medicine everywhere, because the van that hit us was the veterinarian, the local vet, who, I think, probably was up taking care of that poor sick calf that I'd reported. It was bedlam. Tara Newman was directing trafÞc around us because none of the cars would wait. The police arrived and wouldn't even give a Breathalyzer test to the guy driving the van. They said they didn't like to get involved on that level.

The ambulance came and it took an hour. It was like a World War II bread truck, all rattling, and they loaded me in with the guy that hit me, we shared the ambulance together, and I was in such pain and shock that I did not get angry with him. To this day I regret it. I am so unconfrontational. Instead of moaning and weeping about my hip I should have been saying, "You fucking asshole! You ruined our vacation." But I'm so involved with the pain in my hip, or whatever it is that's hurting me, that I don't say anything to him at all. I'm feeling guilty because I didn't have my seat belt on. I'm feeling that it's my fault entirely.

We get to the hospital and it's run by Paki-stani doctors. There's not an Irish doctor in sight, which is a little confusing for me because I suddenly feel like I'm in Pakistan. It's kind of hard to communicate. They speak English, but at the same time they don't have the same chatty bedside manner that the Irish have, at all. I was looking forward to the gift of gab to try to make me feel a little better. They're not paying any attention to Kathie, who's trying to give them advice about giving my head an MRI because I have this big bump on my head where I crashed into Kathie's head. Our heads collided and she got fourteen stitches and I got this bump. They won't do anything we request and Kathie was insisting on it and they were having a fight with her. She was in pain because the air bag had hit her and she had bruised muscles around her heart. They were writing notes on a piece of paper on her chest where the pain was. Kathie said, "Stop it, stop it, please. Where's your clipboard?" and the nurse says, "Well, we don't have one."

She's taken upstairs and put in a female dormitory, and I'm told that I have a broken acetabulum, that I'd chipped the acetabulum socket in my hip, and that I'd have to stay there in the hospital for six weeks, just in traction, and then I'd be better; I didn't need an operation. And then without any anesthesia at all they stuck this catheter in me. It was unbelievable. It made the pain of the broken hip seem mild.

It was a country hospital and they put me in a dormitory with five other men that are bashers and crashers, mainly, I think, farmers, or guys that have hit each other with trucks and tractors, for fun or out of drunkenness, and they're all boasting about it on their cell phones, because cell phones have taken over Ireland, as they have America. The cell phones are falling out of the bed constantly, crashing on the floor and lighting up with a little "Deet-deetle-deet-deet, deet deet," or "Be kind to your web-footed friends, for a duck may be somebody's mother." Every tune was different. I was completely disheveled because I had no pajamas, no toothbrush. I guess you have to carry those with you, the Irish do that, in case of an accident. Kathie said that the upstairs was so dirty she had to pee in the bathtub, because the toilets were unusable.

I'm not about to stay in there for six weeks, I know that, but I don't know how to get out. I feel like a prisoner. It was a shambles in there.

I had no orthopedic doctor, he was away for the weekend, so I'm in pain. They've got my foot hanging up, suspended, and they shoot me up with morphine and leave me there and in the middle of the night I woke up and hallucinated that I was in a Civil War battle, Antie-tam, and was wounded and was lying on a battleÞeld with all these other wounded soldiers around me, these other groaning farmers. I'm near the window, thank God, the window's open-you get the scent of manure, and you can hear the cows grazing and magpies cawing in the most sinister way. It all reminded me of a Brueghel painting.

The next morning is Sunday morning and the priest comes through with the Holy Eucharist and I take my First Communion, what can I tell you. I think, Why not? Then a cross-dresser comes through, I swear, out of a Fellini movie. I will never forget her, it, he. He's got long green artiÞcial Þngernails, balancing the toast between them, and he's going, "Toast! Tea! Toast!" "No, thank you, I'll pass," I said. Then a woman comes through with a clipboard, they Þnally found one, and she's taking a survey: Do I want the hospital to be smoke-free?

From the Hardcover edition.


Meet the Author

Writer, actor, and performer Spalding Gray was the author of It’s a Slippery Slope; Swimming to Cambodia; Monster in a Box; Morning, Noon and Night; and Impossible Vacation, among other works. He appeared on Broadway in his own one-man shows and in an acclaimed revival of Our Town and Gore Vidal’s The Best Man, on PBS and HBO, and in numerous films, including Roland Joffé’s The Killing Fields, David Byrne’s True Stories, and more recently Steven Soderbergh’s Gray’s Anatomy. He was still working on Life Interrupted at the time of his death in 2004.

From the Hardcover edition.

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