In the past 18 months, that reputation had only grown: Fitzgerald had published a best-selling children’s book, finished an essay collection, and maintained a semi-regular book-recommendation segment on the Today show. As an essayist and editor, Fitzgerald had long served as a kind of genial barkeep of the literary internet - an avuncular, boozy presence with killer taste in books. It was an apt metaphor for the year he, and many of us, had just lived through: unpredictable, surreal, plunging, soaring. Then it began a yet-more-tortuous series of swoops and twists. After a sickening interval - that moment when vastly divergent futures have yet to fork - the stunt plane finally righted itself.
(“Excuse my language,” he added primly.) It was a small blue propeller plane, but in that moment it most resembled a leaf tumbling end over end.
The writer Isaac Fitzgerald was walking across a parking lot one day this summer when he looked up to find an airplane falling out of the sky.
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