His dying was unparalleled. No one could clutch at his throat quite like George MacCready. No one’s knees buckled with the gusto of George MacCready’s. Nor could they sprawl ontheir backs, legs quivering ever so slightly, as they gasped their final breath. Only for him would the ermine trim of a velvet tunic kiss the floor as he fell, then twine about his outstretched legs like fingers of a foggy night.No one could die quite like George MacCready. And no one enjoyed watching him die more than I.For you see, George MacCready learned how to die from life. Not his life, for that would have been pointless—to die in order to perfect the business of dying. George MacCready learned by watching others die.The first time I saw him watching death was after a performance of Macbeth. I left my seat in the stalls and hurried outside to wait for the great expirer at the stage door. MacCready had just exited the theatre when a cry rose up from the street behind us. MacCready lifted his head, listening.
