In this collection, Chang has crafted an entire book of obituaries for an endless array of objects and emotions and experiences, some tangible and some not (see: “Gait” “Empathy” “Reason” “Oxygen”). Now I know that they scatter, looking for meaning to attach to a scent” (18) “I used to think that a dead person’s words die with them. In her latest collection, OBIT, she asks: What continues to live when someone we love dies? What dies with them? And anyway, how do you go about writing a single document that might convey the precious, imperfect, complicated, wonderful nuances of an entire life? For Victoria Chang, the obituary is not just a death notice, but a mode. Which is to say that I am no expert in the articulation of existence. He died quite suddenly, at 48, after decade-old cancer cells appeared again in his colon, took over his liver, swallowed him up. I wrote my first and only obituary in 2018, for my uncle. OBIT by Victoria Chang (Copper Canyon Press, 2020)
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