little, christopher Jene

Christopher Jene Little — whose middle name has been spelled wrong his whole life, on purpose, for reasons he enjoyed not explaining — died mid-sentence, at a great age, which surprised no one.

He was a stutterer by birth and a professional talker by spite. He preached, though his own father waited out the sermons in the car with a box of donuts. He wrote about ballistic missiles under one name and about mercy under another, and never introduced the two men to each other. He photographed everyone he ever met, on the theory that a man behind a camera is rarely asked to say anything.

He could deliver a eulogy, load a Polaroid, diagram an argument, and sit quietly with the dying, which is harder than all the rest. For most of a long career he was paid to put words in other men's mouths. He was good at it, and told no one.

Once — exactly once — he did the pursuing instead of the being-pursued, and wooed a woman so thoroughly she married him. He considered this, to the end, the least believable line on his résumé.

He is survived, and will occasionally be missed, by his family, by several thousand photographs of people who never knew he was in the room, and by two Substack drafts he swore he would finish.

Reports of the author's death are, as of this posting, premature. He remains available for lunch.