The New Yorkerのインスタグラム(newyorkermag) - 8月11日 05時01分

The ingenious poet and songwriter David Berman, who died on Wednesday, had a gift for articulating profound loneliness in ways that felt deeply familiar. His music and lyrics are so indelible—so beloved, like old friends—that his devotees carry them around, as part of the way they experience the world. Tap the link in our bio to read Sarah Larson on how Berman made us feel a little less alone. Photograph by Matt Rubin.

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divocka_lavitesse @ezway2staypositive it just doesn't sit right. His passing could easily deflate a lot of hope, and I'm beginning to look at our country the way Russia or the mafia operates. By knocking off "hidden leaders", people who speak up against the evil do-ers. Why hide out for ten years working on a masterpiece, booking a tour and THEN giving up at the last minute. It sounds like revenge and just altogether shadey.

psykdelia ‪I discovered David Berman with his very last project. Loved it, especially Nights that Won’t Happen. Then I discovered that all the singers-songwriters I’m fond of were mourning him with an immense respect, vibrant gratitude and love. In a certain way, I do regret that all of the wonderful artists I cherish didn’t make me discover David Berman before Purple Mountains hits me.

ezway2staypositive @divocka_lavitesse It’s very hard to understand but please read the eulogy at the Drag City website. We’re all feeling the loss very hard. There’s no simple explanation.

christine_shi_en2 I asked the painter why the roads are colored black. He said, "Steve, it's because people leave and no highway will bring them back."

aprill_vanhamersveld I suppose we will all know of him now. Maybe he should have gotten a little more attention while he was alive.

carterlife Before I read the caption I assumed it was Christian Bale in yet another unrecognizable role 😳

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