Remembering Chris
It was four years ago, almost to the hour, that Chris Rutter died.
I crossed that very road at that very spot this Sunday just gone. It was icy, and the possibility of snow was hanging close - much the same weather as when the accident happened. I was a little spooked. Obviously, to look at, it was just another place to cross a road; we all cross roads tens of thousands of times without incident. But I remember. While the chance of the same fate befalling me in the same place was obviously minuscule, it was nonetheless a possibility. Death comes to us all, maybe sooner than we expect.
I've not published anything about Chris before, and that's very remiss of me; I could and should have said something in Livejournal this time last year.
I miss Chris. A lot. Time has passed, and I've adapted enough that I no longer make the mistake of thinking he's still with us, but I keep seeing things I want to show him, wondering things I want to ask him, meeting people I wish could have met him. To those who were closer to him than I - especially to John, Joanna and Nicky, if by any chance you are reading this - I extend my sympathy now, as I did then.
Chris was an extraordinary individual in many ways. He was intellectually of the very highest calibre, studying Computer Science at Cambridge, yet was also a choral exhibitioner. His knowledge spanned the sciences, arts, humanities and classics. He was excellent company: erudite, witty and incisive. He could ruthlessly dismantle ill-conceived arguments, yet was humblingly sensitive and caring with those he loved.
He was a beautiful person, and in turn appreciated beauty. I recall many happy evenings on which I was privileged to enjoy his deep affection for music of all genres, as we listened to CD after CD.
Before his death, Chris had developed from a precocious teenager into an adult of maturity far in advance of his nineteen years. He achieved a lot in his short life, and I mourn that his enormous potential will never now be fully realised.
Just a little less than four years ago, this verse by Ben Jonson was read at Chris's funeral:
It is not growing like a tree
In bulk, doth make man better be;
Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere:
A lily of a day
Is fairer far in May,
Although it fall and die that night,
It was the plant and flower of light.
In small proportions we just beauties see;
And in short measures, life may perfect be.
Christopher Matthew Rutter, 1981-2001, requiescat in pacem.
I crossed that very road at that very spot this Sunday just gone. It was icy, and the possibility of snow was hanging close - much the same weather as when the accident happened. I was a little spooked. Obviously, to look at, it was just another place to cross a road; we all cross roads tens of thousands of times without incident. But I remember. While the chance of the same fate befalling me in the same place was obviously minuscule, it was nonetheless a possibility. Death comes to us all, maybe sooner than we expect.
I've not published anything about Chris before, and that's very remiss of me; I could and should have said something in Livejournal this time last year.
I miss Chris. A lot. Time has passed, and I've adapted enough that I no longer make the mistake of thinking he's still with us, but I keep seeing things I want to show him, wondering things I want to ask him, meeting people I wish could have met him. To those who were closer to him than I - especially to John, Joanna and Nicky, if by any chance you are reading this - I extend my sympathy now, as I did then.
Chris was an extraordinary individual in many ways. He was intellectually of the very highest calibre, studying Computer Science at Cambridge, yet was also a choral exhibitioner. His knowledge spanned the sciences, arts, humanities and classics. He was excellent company: erudite, witty and incisive. He could ruthlessly dismantle ill-conceived arguments, yet was humblingly sensitive and caring with those he loved.
He was a beautiful person, and in turn appreciated beauty. I recall many happy evenings on which I was privileged to enjoy his deep affection for music of all genres, as we listened to CD after CD.
Before his death, Chris had developed from a precocious teenager into an adult of maturity far in advance of his nineteen years. He achieved a lot in his short life, and I mourn that his enormous potential will never now be fully realised.
Just a little less than four years ago, this verse by Ben Jonson was read at Chris's funeral:
It is not growing like a tree
In bulk, doth make man better be;
Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere:
A lily of a day
Is fairer far in May,
Although it fall and die that night,
It was the plant and flower of light.
In small proportions we just beauties see;
And in short measures, life may perfect be.
Christopher Matthew Rutter, 1981-2001, requiescat in pacem.