![]() ![]() She’d blow deadlines and be rude and endlessly dramatic. She cycled, proudly, through jobs and agents and editors and publishers. But in New York media circles, for three decades, Wurtzel was a fixture by turns beguiling and exhausting, her talent and troubles congenitally bound to one another. Much of the coverage of Wurtzel’s death has focused on the importance of her 1994 memoir, Prozac Nation, which helped launch the confessional-memoir boom. I feel if I don’t answer one call from a reporter, I’ll rot in hell.” “She was always an attention queen, the more outrageous the better. “Elizabeth would want this exactly,” her husband, Jim Freed, says. ![]() To judge by the outpouring of obituaries and social-media remembrances over the past day and a half, Wurtzel may have been the rare depressed person whose delusion was prophetic. ![]() “It doesn’t really work out.” She was talking about how depressed people are given to fantasizing that people will miss them when they’re gone. “You can’t be at your own funeral,” Elizabeth Wurtzel told a crowd of more than 1,000 people at the University of Wisconsin in 2004, when she was promoting Now, More, Again: A Memoir of Addiction. ![]()
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