Zygmunt Bauman died this past January. I found out about it from a student’s presentation and almost burst down in tears. It’s very inconsiderate of Bauman to just go and die on us right when the world is ready to hear what he’s been saying for decades. He could have taken a better care of his health and not smoked like a chimney, for instance. His life didn’t belong just to himself. And yes, he was 91 when he died, so what? 91, 101 – he could have dragged it out first the sake of humanity.
This is turning into an unwelcome trend. First, novelist Rafael Chirbes kicks the bucket way too early. Then philosopher Ulrich Beck bites it prematurely. And now it’s lights out on Bauman. And if I sound not too serious about it, that’s because I’m too upset to be serious.
I have decided to start a Bauman collection. I’m buying and reading everything he’s written (that has been translated into English, of course.) If there’s no more Bauman to provide insights (and nobody else of his stature I know of), I’ll have to become a Bauman onto myself and figure shit out for myself.