Damn Pete, damn. My gawd:
“But Prince isn’t cosmic, exactly, or not in the same way as Bowie, as Jones. His otherworldliness is not that of an alien, a sci-fi visitant. It is rather the otherworldliness of someone very much of this world — his filthiness, his commitment to the joy of what is lewd, forever reminds us of this — but the whole of whose being seems italicized by, given substance through, a set of animating principles quite entirely apart from the world of mortal life.”
“Think of the zone of impermeable privacy he creates around himself, on stage, but also in song. (There has never, ever been a male singer who’s made more of coyness — a flirtatious recessiveness and withholding. I said, Cool – but I’m keeping my pants on, he says while getting into the bath with Dorothy Parker. It kills.)”
“And if this makes him a wonder — the prophet of the holy fuck, flooding the world with these bright shards of unconverted divinity — it also makes him hard to grieve. His death is unassimilable, I mean, because it partakes of the unassimilability that he has always, in that splendid otherwordliness, carried around with him.”
And more. I am so glad I waited until today to read this. This is tribute. Thank you for writing it.
Day 9. A novena for the prophet of the holy fuck. Amen.