09/01/2026
Wendell Berry, of Henry County, Kentucky, beloved poet, author, and agrarian, an unceasing and fearless and abiding critic of culture and industry, died yesterday. I read the news around 11pm. I was grateful that Barbara Kingsolver, through a note on her social media, was the messenger of this mournful news. âWeâve lost Wendell Berry,â she wrote. âProphet, good farmer, gentle literary giant. Kentuckian of the finest order and friend to all that is good.â We, like her, in this staggering loss, reach for our books. Timbered Choir. Jayber Crow. The Sabbath Poems. Art of the Commonplace. Leavings. Coulters, Feltners, Catletts. Port William. The Nest Egg. The River. If you read Berryâs stories and poems and exhortations, you all felt like part of his hallowed Membership. As a writer, he was the man who could play any instrument. A virtuoso, but by ear. He wrote in pencil in the long-legged cabin on family land. His wife Tanya typed up his drafts. Unwavering, both of them, to one another and to a way of living. Because of all things, that is what Wendell Berry brought the world. A way of living. A choice. Not the road, but the footpath.
Robin and I were exceedingly lucky to be able to meet Mr. Berry a few years ago. It was on his farm in Henry County. It was a chilled afternoon. Springtime. After wandering his pastures and woodsâan experience alone worth walking from Texas to Kentuckyâwe had a brief encounter with him. He was a tall man. He was 90, so there was age, but you felt standing with him that there was a taproot that brought the inner strength to match his stature. He was funny, too, kindly salting at chit-chat or compliments. As much as any person Iâve met, he carried a felt presence.
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