When I die, skip the Beanie baby; just pour some whiskey down my throat

George Plimpton George Plimpton, founder of The Paris Review, died last September. The current issue of Vogue provides a glimpse into his final moments:

Plimpton died in his sleep, at home. He looked so peaceful that Sarah [his wife] had the twins come in and sit with him. (They were getting ready for school when it happened.) “There was no mystery about it, no ugliness. He just looked like he had gone to sleep. Laura did the most endearing thing. She had one of those Beanie babies, a duck, and sat it on his forehead. My first reaction was, Oh Laura, don’t do that. But then I thought, George would have been amused. He felt humor was essential to life. After a few minutes, they’s had enough, and that was it.”

Later that morning, Olivia looked out the window and saw a four-masted schooner on the East River. It seemed as though no one was on deck, and Olivia said, “That’s Dad, sailing by.”

(Thanks to Beat Royalty.)


You might want to subscribe to my free Substack newsletter, Ancestor Trouble, if the name makes intuitive sense to you.