Fresh Air - Zadie Smith Asks, What Makes Us Feel Alive?

Episode Date: December 15, 2025

Zadie Smith returns to talk with Terry Gross about her new collection of essays, 'Dead and Alive.' She reflects on the "nonsense" of generational discourse, being raised by TV, and her obsession with time.Also, Martin Johnson has an appreciation of drummer and composer Jack deJohnette, who died in October. Follow Fresh Air on instagram @nprfreshair, and subscribe to our weekly newsletter for gems from the Fresh Air archive, staff recommendations, and a peek behind the scenes.Learn more about sponsor message choices: podcastchoices.com/adchoicesNPR Privacy Policy

Hi, it's Terry Gross. Before we start the show today, I want to say a few words about public media. It's been in the news a lot because federal funding for it was completely eliminated earlier this year. But it's the fact that NPR is public media that enables fresh air and all of NPR's podcasts to be unique and to be there for you. Public media was created to represent and serve diverse audiences, including underrepresented communities throughout America, enabling us to better hear and understand each other, and in the words of the Public Broadcasting Act of 1967, to offer programs for, quote, instructional, educational, and cultural purposes, unquote. At NPR, we still believe in these core commitments,

but the loss of federal funding that the Act provided for is creating major challenges for NPR and all public radio stations. As we move into this uncharted future together, we know that you will not let the service that has been here for you all these years falter. We rely on your support to bring you fresh air now more than ever. This year, we've continued to bring you interviews with investigative journalists who have uncovered important stories that otherwise may have never been revealed about our government and the state of our democracy, as well as interviews with authors, musicians,

actors, directors, scientists, health experts, religion scholars, and more. Who knows what surprises await us in 2026? Thank you if you already go the extra mile as an NPR Plus supporter. If not, you can join the Plus community, get a bunch of perks like bonus episodes and more from across NPR's podcasts, including fresh air. And support public media by signing up for NPR Plus today at plus.NPR. dot org. Thank you. This is fresh air.

I'm Terry Gross. We were shocked and saddened to hear about the deaths of Rob Reiner and his wife, Michelle Singer. Tomorrow, we'll re-broadcast my recent interview with Reiner. And now, let's move on to the interview I recorded

last week with Zadie Smith. My guest, Zadie Smith, is probably tired of hearing this next sentence, but here goes. She published her first novel white teeth in the year 2000 when she was 25. It was a critical success and an international bestseller. Just a couple of months ago, she turned 50. So instead of writing from the point of view as a young writer, she's writing from the point of view of a middle-aged woman

who is in addition to being a writer, a wife, and a mother of two. Age and the new generation gaps, including between millennials and gen Xers, are among the subject she reflects on in her new collection of essays, dead and alive. She also writes about being raised by TV watching nine hours a day, and all the warnings about the dangers of children watching TV, and how that compares to children today, being raised in the social media era, with so many warnings about exposing children to social media and YouTube. The essays include book reviews, reflections on the visual arts, speeches, and reflection about many aspects of life. Zadie Smith, well, Welcome back to Fresh Air. So do you find it objectionable at this point to say, she published her first novel when she was 25?

No, I mean, you know, it's definitely aging. But I'm always incredibly grateful for the girl who wrote that book because she enabled my entire life. So I like to hear about her. Good. Okay. Let's start by talking about age. What subjects have the most interest for you at age 25 when you published? your first book, compared to now when you're publishing your book of essays at age 50? I don't think it's changed that much. I think I'm always interested in time. I'm always interested in our, for lack of a better term, like our existential experience, like our experience on this earth. I'm always fascinated by culture of all kinds, and that hasn't really aged. Like I sometimes I think it's a bit embarrassing how much I keep up with, I don't know, music or new books or I have a kind of voracious appetite for that kind of stuff. That's the privilege

of my life, I guess. I had the opportunity to continue to be interested. You mentioned time. You write you're basically obsessed with time. What is that obsession like? What is it about time? What aspect of time? I would have assumed that everybody's obsessed with time. I am. I'll tell you that. I don't think I've ever met anybody who isn't. So I always find it strange when people think of it as particular to me because that's, I thought that's just the way people went through life. But that's another thing about writing. You find out the things that are actually peculiar to you. That's always the question you're trying to get on the page. Like, is this normal? Do you feel this? And sometimes the answer is yes and sometimes

the answer is no. So maybe my preoccupation is stronger. And I'm sure it just has a quite boring Freudian origin, which is the very large age gap that my parents, had. So I suppose as a child, the question of time was on my mind in a way it might not be if both your parents are 24, you know. How big was the age difference? 30 years. Oh, that's a lot. Yeah, my mother was 20. My father was 50, yeah. So growing up with parents with that age gap, didn't make you reflect on things like, you know, in movies, when the male star and the female star who fall in love are 30 years apart, that often appears not to be a good look anymore.

I mean, it was never a good look. I'm the product of a completely inappropriate relationship, for sure. But I guess my concern as a child was more that it was just, I mean, my father's been dead a very long time, but it was the nature of time travel. You know, I was living with someone who went to see Casablanca in the cinema, who saw Ella Fitzgerald sing live. And I was also living with someone who was only 20 years older than me

who'd come from a completely different world, different islands. So it was like space and time travel in my house. It was, you know, interesting. What brought them together? Oh, I mean, who knows? My theory is in the 70s you could really hate someone and be married to them for 12 years. And now you could be madly in love and not make it that far. It was, as they say, a different time.

I like the way you write about generational conflicts. and so I want to talk a little bit about that how did you feel about your parents' generation versus your generation? Like what were the gaps that you saw? Though your family's a little bit unique because your father was 30 years older than your mother and your mother was from Jamaica

and your father from England. Yes, we had two generations in the same house. I mean, three including me. Like generational discourse is nonsense, really. That's kind of what I'm trying to. trying to write about. What amused me about it recently is how vicious it's become. And I wanted to try and think about the reasons why. And I think they're perfectly valid. But when I think of myself as a child and my mother's generation and my father's, you know, obviously there are things

in both that as a teenager you find absurd or you roll your eyes up. But I think the absolutely key difference is structural and economic in that I did not think of them as eating up my resources ending the planet or making my future impossible. So that made it possible to look on their foibles, you know, whether it was, you know, free love in the 60s or certain kind of patriotism or whatever with a gentle eye because it wasn't existential. So to me it makes complete sense that the discussions feel more angry or violent now because they should do. If you are young and feel like you cannot rent an apartment, you cannot make your life, you cannot buy a house,

you cannot start an apprenticeship, you cannot get a job, why would you not look above you and say, you know, if you, that makes complete sense to me. You talk about how the binary of young versus old is crazy. Why do you think that? I mean, again, just as a structural fact, You know, other discourses, gender discourses, racial discourses, make way more sense because you are on the side of an almost absolute division. Of course, in gender, it's not absolute.

In race, more or less, if you are black, you're not going to become white. If you're white, you're not going to become black, barring some miracle. But if you are young, you are absolutely going to become old. So it would seem to me not really worth making an absolutely vicious discourse out of something that you were about to enter literally before you know it, right? That's the one thing that I know now that I didn't know at 20 is that you become 50 in the blink of an eye. And anyone listening to this who is my age will know that to be true. There's no reason for anyone who's 20 to know that.

I didn't know it. But it is true. And so that means to me that a certain amount of care around the issue of age should be practiced on both sides because it's one of those deep delusions that you don't realize you're in until it's too late. One of the things that keeps changing is language. Every generation seems to come up with new coinages, new expressions, and those are coming in and going out of style very quickly now, because I don't know, time is moving so quickly, technology is moving so quickly. So as a language person, what are some of the coinages from your generation or, you know, words and expression that you chose to use at the time and still use. use now or still or no longer use because they're just so out of date?

I mean, it's one thing I particularly love is language transformation. So I, and I live in a neighborhood where slang of all kind is how everyone speaks. It's fascinating. So I get updates, you know, practically weekly on what the word for cool is or what the word for a hot person is or, you know, it transforms, it feels like monthly. I love all of that. I think the one that irritates my children most is that a lot of, British people of my generation, and maybe particularly ex-ravers, I used to love raving,

and a lot of people in this country did, we have the habit of saying tune, whenever a good song is anywhere, and that is mortifying to my children and I think many children. Tune spelt C-H-O-O-O-N, so I try not to say that in public. Is that a British thing? It's very British, yeah, yeah. Oh, okay, because I haven't heard that one. No, it's British and for the club crowd, yeah. I know like my father used to always use the words like lady gal dame and then and then in tolerable

yeah I know but lady is back now like ladies that's a word that many women used to describe themselves now no I like I like lady actually yeah I'm okay with it but but it has a different meaning than it did like when my father's generation was using it it was very condescending I thought at the time right I mean, the creativity of street-level language is something that I just find endlessly thrilling. It's a little sad as you get older as a writer because you can't include it. Like, the kind of slang and street language that is in my early novels is antique now. And so you have a choice. You can continue writing about that period, but I could never write the language my kids bring home.

I think children tend to grow up in a different world than their parents did. Technology has changed. Language has often changed. The environment has changed. Like my parents, they didn't live to see 9-11 or the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan or the COVID lockdown or the first or second election of Donald Trump. And those are really like world-changing events. And sometimes one life can cover enormous change. Like with both my parents, my father's standing in the ruins of Dachau and then he suddenly, it's the eight. It's the eight. 80s and, you know, he's got a little car and he's buzzing around a neighborhood in Wilson with a Jamaican wife and three children. That's a transformation. Or my mother

from a tiny, tiny village, an absolute poverty to the same strange corner of northwest London in its completely other circumstance. You pass through ages, historical moments, political moments. It's not easy for anyone to keep moving. And sometimes it's also, as I get older, There are things which pertain to age, which I'd be happy to hold on to rather than pretend that my mind and thought are the same as a 24-year-olds forever. That would be, in my view, a kind of bad look, like your mom dancing at a party. You mentioned your father at Dachau. Was he a soldier helping to liberate it? Yeah, he liberated it, yeah.

I mean, when I say he was 17, so that's another extreme imaginative jump, right, to imagine a 17-year-old doing such a thing. 17. I was just smoking weed. I didn't do anything. So these are extreme differences, yeah. Did he talk to you about it? Not really. I mean, when he was very old and dying, I interviewed him about it a bit, and I wrote about that a little bit. But whatever he saw over there, he really didn't want to discuss. I know it's the old cliche, but I think the trauma was lifelong. You write about being raised by TV. What did you get from TV? got you to watch TV

nine hours a day. And where did you find the time? You had to go to school, right? I went to school, but I was, I guess, a bit of a latchkey kid because my parents were working. So from 3.30, it was anybody's house.

And I did, I watched a tremendous amount. I mean, it's the early 80s, right? So TV is still relatively new. And I just, loved it. I still really profoundly love television. I have to kind of keep control over it. But when you're in a household

of two such peculiarly different individuals out of two alien histories, and then thirdly you're in a country which you know is your home, but many people in it don't seem to think it's your home, you're kind of looking for clues. Like, what is going on? When you say that, do you mean because your mother's Jamaica? Yeah, I mean, it's still a period, like, for my mother when she first arrived. I mean, when they married, they went on honeymoon.

They couldn't get a room together in Paris. She would try and get a room in England. And, you know, when you turn up at the door, they're like, oh, no, sorry, I was wrong about that. Was your father white? Yeah, my father was white. So you're kind of strange, and you feel strange. And I think for me, TV, it was like a clue, like what is going on? And also it was a – I used to play, like, a lot of people of my generation, you know,

spot the black person. I was watching TV to try and find us anywhere and always completely thrilled to find anybody. So that also involved a lot of, you know, old movies, a lot of American television. It was just a way of situating myself in the world, I think. What shows made the biggest impression on you? Some of it's painful now. I was reading someone a few days ago talking about the Cosby show, which of course is now forever stained. But for me, sitting in Willsdon, watching this, they seem to be rich, like rich black people in a big house

somewhere I didn't know where it was even. And he was a doctor, was he? That was all fascinating to me. I'd never seen anything like it. I had all kinds of crazy ideas about America as a consequence, as you can imagine. I now know the Cosby Show was not an accurate representation of the great majority of black life at that point in America. And of Bill Cosby.

Anna Bill Cosby, of course. But shows like that, it was all fascinating to me, anything American. I want to get back to generations for a second. And aging. So there's a section from your essay called Some Notes on Mediated Time that I'd like you to read. But just set up this reading for us. This essay came really late in the book because I do not want to be known as the lady who hated the Internet. Because it's not true, first of all.

But I started this essay, which was meant to be just about time, and I realized my feelings about time and the way I experience it have changed over the years because of the different mediums I've been involved with. So this begins with a photograph. Me and my friends on WhatsApp are looking at a photograph of a newborn baby and realizing that the baby is now 15 and so much time has passed. I should say we're all in these photos hanging out with this newborn baby. how young we looked how absolutely childlike except we were not especially young even then the queer kids

the club kids the sellouts the procreaters the artists the 9 to 5ers the unemployed the rich and the poor the black and the white and the neither we and everybody we knew was 30 or thereabouts

we all still dress like teenagers though and in the minds of the popular culture were slackers, suffering from some form of delayed development, possibly the sad consequence of missing such key adulting experiences as a good war or a stock market crash. We defended ourselves against such critiques, but privately were a bit sheepish about living at the end of history. We felt history belonged to other people,

that we lived in a time of no time. We had some very peculiar ideas about time generally. It was like we were incapable of properly gauging its passing. Take that moment my brother called me to announce he was having a baby, age 27. I reacted as if he were a teenage father. Really couldn't have been more astounded. This tendency to be utterly amazed by any sign of time moving forward has continued. I don't think it's just me.

It felt like all of us were 27. for the longest time, basically until we were 38. Then suddenly 40 was bearing down on us all like an avalanche. Time did not seem to be passing at all, really, until we moved into a new age bracket as defined by advertisers, and then it seemed to pass all at once in a great panic-inducing swoosh. We thought our lives would be reasonably paced and tell a story full of meaning.

Instead it's just been one thing after, another, and there are no neat conclusions except the certainty of death. And over the years, as each perfectly boring, predictable milestone has been met with dumb founded shock, from the first grey hairs to the menopause, I have often had the thought, did the ancient Greeks think of time this way? The Teno Indians? Do the Maasai? Are farmers and peasants and monks this amazed to be 40? Is this reality? How much of all this is mediated? And how much mediation is too much? Yeah, I'm wondering if this sense of life seeming to be supposed to have a more shapely form,

but it's just one thing after another, is the shapeliness, the expectation of a shapeliness of a narrative in life and about even not necessarily thinking of yourself as getting older when you're young. Do you think that's a function of having watched so much TV when you were growing up, where everything is kind of shapely and there's resolutions? That's definitely part of it. But I really mean that about that last question, like how much mediation is too much. I really don't know. Like I wrote this book trying to ask myself that question. I think TV definitely did something to me, but it was also, it's important to think about what TV was replacing.

And TV was replacing ritual, rituals which formed millions of billions of people's lives. the things they would have done in the afternoons rather than sit in front of a TV with their dinner on their laps, the churches and mosques and synagogues they would have gone to ritual. So the shape of a life used to be defined by those things and they do bring meaning. They stand in when we don't have the words, when we don't know what to do, when we feel lost. That I think is in fact the biggest difference between, for me, being 25 and 50s. When I was 25, I used to genuinely have the feeling, what's wrong with all these? ridiculous people who can't create their own meaning who run off to these faiths or philosophies

or feel they need to be charitable or do these kind of things. Why don't they just man up? And of course now that that thought is so repulsive to me that vulnerability and need are to be treated with contempt. But I think I did think it. I used to watch people volunteering, you know, and think, oh, they're only doing it to make themselves feel better. Well, yeah. That's the point. Yes, smart us. That's the entire point.

It feels good. It feels meaningful. That's why people do it. He couldn't have told me at 20. I was a fool. Let's take a short break here. My guest is Zadie Smith. Her new collection of essays is titled Dead and Alive.

We'll continue the interview after a break. I'm Terry Gross and this is fresh air. Getting back to generations, do you see splits between different generations of feminists and how the various interpretations of what is freedom, for instance, in the way you dress, versus what is sexual exploitation and commercialization and objectification? Of course I see it. I find it painful, though, and I don't want to engage in internecine feminist warfare ever, because I just think it's pointless.

Like, I see, I have a daughter, of course, and, you know, I guess I have ideas about how I dress, how I present myself, I'm sure they're not hers. My daughter would say I'm very judgmental. I know I am. I come from a judgmental school of feminism passed down from my mother. Like, I still never, have never written the word Mrs. on any document in my life. Mrs. burned into my brain since I was about five years old.

So I'm aware, but again, with all these things I try to say to myself, I am the way I am because of the way I was raised, because of the ideas I was raised around, okay. Once I know that, then I know it's relational. Like, that's me. It doesn't have to be everybody. But, you know, of course, within any movement, it's easy to get wound up by different approaches.

Sometimes I guess as you get older, you do see people reinventing the wheel. You know, like I've just noticed some younger feminists now saying, for the first time in a while, oh yeah, maybe, you know, having loads of plastic surgery isn't the most feminist thing in the world. Well, yeah, babe. I don't know what to, you know,

people have to come to these conclusions themselves. It takes a minute, I think. So I just don't believe in that kind of neoliberal idea of progress builds on progress. I think each group of people has to figure it out themselves and your job, if you've already been through it, is to say, you know, offer support, say, yeah, yeah. Or when you can see something going

a bit south, go, oh, maybe not. But enforcement, as you learn as a parent pretty quickly, doesn't work. People will just go in the other direction. I really agree with what you said about not wanting to get into interfeminist war about, you know, opinions of what feminism really is. But I find sometimes it's hard to state differences about, for instance, what's objectification and what's freedom, without it being. perceived as generational warfare. What I'd like to do is just compare perspectives and have us each understand each others and figure out like, why do we think that?

This is what I say. The difference I think between my generation feminists and some of the ones that came afterwards is that we have the concept of false consciousness. So the belief that you could do something and think it was something that you wanted, but it turns out it's not really exactly what you want. Like, willing is a very complicated thing. It could be influenced by how you want to seem to be, by pressures from other people, by the male gaze, that there is such a thing as false consciousness. So, I mean, the ultimate example would be, a feminist of my generation might say, even if this person, this particular person says she really enjoys this act, which I find degrading or depressing or self-harming, even if she really enjoys it, says she enjoys it, her saying that does not end.

the debate because she might be under false consciousness. Now there's a whole generation of women who think false consciousness is just a nonsense concept. So that's fine. But I think once you understand that that's a difference, I do believe in false consciousness because I experience it as a human being. I know that sometimes I say, I really like this. And what I really mean is I don't like this at all and I'm really unhappy. So I believe in it as a concept because I have experienced it. But if there are a generation of feminists who find that concept patronizing or hierarchical or then their feminism will go from a different point. But that's the feminism I was raised in and that's the one that I experientially find to be true.

Does your daughter have different views of what it means to be a feminist than you do? Because of the generation difference. I don't want to talk for my daughter, but I would say that like any good teenage daughter, anything I am, she'd like to be the opposite of. So I don't know if she would even call herself feminist, but I don't know. Is there any way around that? Why is that always so, or so often so, you know, that? The opposition, yeah.

Yeah, that children want to do the opposite of their parents. I know I did. That's just what it is. But I notice now coming around the other side that you're able to admire your parents more later. These are not, oh my God, these are not very new things to say. but I really experienced, like with my own mother, the kind of oppositions we had when I was a teenager. Now, you know, you're able to see things in the round.

You're able to see, look at this remarkable woman who came to a country. She knew nothing about raised children alone for the most part. My parents were divorced pretty early. Made her own life on very little money. Then wrote a novel, for God's sake. Like, you can admire this person as an adult in a way that it's harder when you're,

a kid when you're kind of fighting for survival, or that's how it feels, particularly from strong mothers. My mother's an extremely strong person and extremely strong personality, and kids find that hard, but as an adult woman, I admire it so much. I want to ask you a little bit more about your parents and your origin story. Can you describe a little bit what their early lives were like to the extent that you know? Well, helpfully my mother has written a novel, so a quite autobiographical novel. Called the Day I Fell Off My Island, she was born in very tough circumstances.

She grew up extremely poor. Her mother left to work with the Windrush Generation as an orderly in a hospital, and she left my mother in Jamaica. So she was alone for a long time. At what age? I think she left when my mother was about five and then called for. her when she was about 15, it was tough. I mean, there's an extraordinary...

Her grandparents and there were other kids there, but then they were called and my mother was left alone. When she came to England, her mother didn't want her to go to school because she wanted her to look after some of the other children in the house. So my mother, who desperately wanted to be educated, left the house, went down the road looking for a school and she found a school and said, I want to enroll here. And the guy was like, this is a private school. Do you have any money?

My mom was like, no. So he said, well, there's a public school. You can try that. And so my mother went to the public school, told them her situation. They agreed to enroll her. They gave her a uniform. And apparently, my grandmother was furious at this. But my mother went.

So that kind of will is pretty extraordinary. But that's the background she came from. And my father, he also, they both had missing fathers. So there were no fathers in either case. And it was extreme poverty. So he left school when he was 12. and he also felt very resentful about the lack of education. He was a very smart man, I think,

but he never got a chance to be formally educated the way I have been. What are some of the things that you learn from them that have been helpful in your life? That is a good question. I guess from my mother, just the power of will, she gave that to all of us. Did she use it against you? when you wanted to do something she didn't want.

It's not easy living in a house with two willful women. But, you know, the thing about my mother, which I actually really appreciate, and I only appreciate it by comparison now with what I understand some people feel about their mothers. My mother was in no way neurotic. There were no, you know, crazy diets or anxiety. My mother, from the very beginning, has always considered. herself to be a tremendous person. She thinks she's beautiful, she thinks he's brilliant.

That's a good thing to be raised around. She was beautiful. She was an incredibly beautiful woman. And all the things that people have said to her, you know, she's very, very dark-skinned. And in Jamaica, the colorism was very intense, and she was always called Ugly and Marga and Bucktooth and all the terrible things they said to her.

Somehow she was not destroyed by these things. And she kind of walked in the world with a lot of confidence. So maybe that's what my mother taught me, kind of impervious to other people's opinions. The way you're describing it, it sounds like the discrimination or distrust of her because of the color of her skin, because it was like so dark, might have been almost worse than it was in London. And Jamaica is a majority black population. No, I wouldn't say that. Oh, okay. You're being, you know, you're being stopped from.

Yeah, what was she stopped from? In England, you're being at that point, it's hard to get, even when she went to that school, there's a choice between, as I used to put it, secretarial or the academic route. And as my mum told me, every black girl in that school was told to go the secretarial route. So that meant no university, no A-levels, you learn to type. And she types very fast. But she got her degree later as an adult in her 30s. So that's a kind of structural discrimination which distorts your entire life.

Yeah. Colorism, you know, is all over the islands because of the history of slavery and the way those islands were run. But my mother never, I don't know, somehow she knew she was beautiful and she had confidence in it. And that's something she always radiated. My guest is Adie Smith. Her new collection of essays is titled Dead and Alive. We'll be right back after a short break. This is fresh air.

Now that you're 50, recently turned 50, are there new issues that you're facing in life or new ways of thinking about the future than when you were younger? I mean, there's decrepitude. You can't see me, but I'm speaking to you with an eye patch on because I've got macular degeneration, so I had an operation on my right eye. So there's that feeling of vulnerability. I've been so lucky, again, I'm barely ill, rarely having any physical difficulties. So there's that shock of like, oh yeah, here it comes, this reminder of your human weakness.

So there's that, trying to work out what kind of a sick person you're going to be. Are you going to be the kind who talks about it endlessly on the radio? You're going to be the kind who just soldiers on bravely and Doug barely mentions it. I don't know. You find out. I always love that line of Salman Rushdie, he says, our lives teach us who we are. That's how it is.

You can have all kinds of ideas about who you are, but your life shows you. So I kind of finding out as I go along. Do you want people to know when you're having a health issue, or do you prefer to hide it? I am prone to self-pity when it comes to a cold, but I'm realizing when it's something more serious like this, I do kind of want to just get on with it.

And, I don't know, when you're a writer, the thing about being self-sufficient is very strong. You know, you do your own work by yourself. You don't need anybody. That's the whole thing. You don't need anybody. And I guess the reality of getting older is that that's just not true. You will need people. People will need you.

So you have to recalibrate your brain around that new fact. Do you worry about who's going to die first? You or your husband? I used to play that game about my parents, like, who's going to outlive the other and who would be more capable of outliving the other? There's so much magical thinking in it. You realize that if someone actually puts the question to you,

you've kind of hazily thought it'll be a simultaneous act. But of course, it's ridiculous. We've both done an equal amount of life-shortening things, so we'll wait and see. I don't know. The main thing I think actually is that, which I never would have thought when I was in my 20s, and I was so terrified of death

and all I wanted to do was live, live, live, live. Now, given all my luck and the pleasure of the work that I've done, I'm less terrified. And I feel like I've been given just about as much as I deserve. So everything else at this point is gravy. Why were you terrified of death earlier? Isn't everybody? That is mysterious to me.

I thought everybody was absolutely terrified and then you meet people who just seem completely chill about it and they are a constant amazement to me. But to me, the idea of not existing, not being conscious, I just experience it as pure terror, but not so much anymore. New things are scarier, like the death of your children turns out to be a lot more scary

than your own death, which I couldn't have predicted when I was young. Some people, when their young, feel immune from death and take all kinds of risks without thinking about possible consequences. I mean, I've never been physically risky. Like, my view is that, as my mother would say, I thought that bungee jumping and helicopter rides were basically for rich, white people. I'm not taking unnecessary risks at this point in human history. I was never going to do any of that. But I did take all the drugs and all of that stuff. So I guess I took risks in a certain way.

But, yeah, no physical dare-doing. Am I right that you fell out of a window? By accident, yeah, but that's not something I ever would have, you know, chosen. No, no, it was an accident, but people thought it was a suicide attack. They did. They thought it was suicide. How did you fall out of a window? I was smoking a cigarette, which is one of the many life-shortening activities I've participated in over the decades. And how did that lead you to be falling out the window?

Because my mom had kind of laid down the law and said no more smoking. So I was trying to do it surreptitiously and it went wrong. Were you injured? Was it the first floor? I was badly injured, yeah. I broke my right leg very, very badly. Like the whole femur smashed in half and I had all kinds of smaller fractures. I mean, it's still a thing. Like people tell me I limp when it gets cold and it certainly gives me pain. sometimes. Were you depressed enough at that time that people had reason to suspect that it was suicide?

Yeah. I was very, very melancholy and quite isolated, I guess. I read a lot. I stayed at home a lot. I smoked too much weed, which can make you very depressed. Right. Did the depression subside over time? I think I have my melancholys, you know, does a permanent part of my, uh, way of being. So you just, you get used to it. Like I find writing pretty cathartic. I don't, I don't say it ends melancholy or depression, but it does articulate things that otherwise would just kind of sit there and bother me. So it's a way of getting things out that I do find quite helpful. But the melancholy is not going anywhere at this point. This is part of me. And life is melancholy, it would be strange not to feel melancholy about it. There's a lot of sadness.

Yeah. Well, I regret to say our time is up. I want to thank you so much. It's great to talk with you again. Thank you. And thanks. It was so lovely to talk to you again. It was great. Zadie Smith's new collection of essays is called Dead and Alive. After a short break, jazz critic Martin Johnson will have an appreciation of drummer and composer Jack the Jeanette. Martin says, Jeanette was one of the greatest jazz drummers of the past 60 years. This is fresh air. The extraordinary drummer and composer Jack DeGinette died in October at the age of 83. D. Jeanette was one of the greatest jazz drummers of the past 60 years, and he played with a remarkable range of jazz greats, from Miles Davis and Bill Evans to Charles Lloyd and Henry

Threadgill. In this appreciation, our jazz critic Martin Johnson says that D. Jeanette was one of the most versatile drummers in jazz history. That's drummer Jack Dijanette kicking off Miles Davis' 1971 classic, Jack Johnson, one of the highlights of the legendary trumpeter's electric period. Dijanette was the perfect drummer for that era. He combined the power of rock and funk with the finesse of jazz. His thunderous rhythms could match the power of an electric guitar, but his delicate shadings could elevate a familiar standard into a new listening experience.

as he does here on I Fall in Love Too Easily. Dejanette was born in Chicago in 1942. he played piano, an instrument he returned to on many occasions during his career. He switched his focus to drums when he was 13 years old, and he was playing professionally a year later, making the gig in rhythm and blues bands, jazz ensembles, and even some of the early avant-garde groups. He moved to New York in 1966, and later that year, he played with the saxophonist Joe Henderson and the pianist McCoy Tyner at Slug's Saloon in Manhattan. Dejanette recorded the date. released last year as forces of nature, a showcase of exceptional late 60s jazz.

A few years later, he reunited. A few years later, he reunited. with Henderson on his classic 1969 recording Power to the People, which features an extraordinary band. Here's D. Jeanette mixing it up with pianist Turby Hancock. Hancock recently said of Dijanette, he always played the drums with a pianist sense of melody, color, and harmony. During the 70s, Dijanette's drums became one of the defining sounds of the then-new label, ECM Records, and he appeared on many recordings in several contexts, as a sideman. a co-leader and as the founder and leader of bands like directions, new directions, and notably special edition, where he was often the elder honing and challenging younger saxophonists

like Chico Freeman, David Murray, and John Purcell. Let's listen to Dijanette Lead Purcell and Freeman on Ten Can Alley. Pianist Keith Jarrett was one of Dijanette's most frequent collaborators. They played together with Charles Lloyd in the 60s, then with Miles Davis a few years later. For more than 30 years, starting in the early 80s, Dijonet, Jarrett, and bassist Gary Peacock played as the Standards trio, reinventing classic works. It became one of the most. loved bands and jazz. Dijanette told the podcast, The American Radio Show, that the trio's longevity owed to their strategy of playing every piece as if it were new, playing it for the

first time. Let's hear how we frame Jared's solo on The Way You Look Tonight. And now let's hear Dijunette's solo. It appears that Jarrett, who often vocalizes during his own solos, is cheering his bandmate on. In 2013, Dijanet returned to his roots on the Chicago avant-garde scene, assembling a unique ensemble featuring several titans of the Windy City avant-garde, pianist Mujal Richard Abrams, plus saxophonist Roscoe Mitchell and Henry Thread, The band played at the Chicago Jazz Festival and the concert was documented on a recording called Made in Chicago. Let's hear Dijunette duet with Abrams, one of his early mentors, on Museum of Time.

Dijanette never stopped exploring new musical vistas. He collaborated with greats like guitarist Bill Fruzell and vocalist Bobby McFerrin, and he made recordings outside of jazz's wide boundaries. His 2010 release, Peace Time, won a Grammy Award for Best New Age album. In 2012, he was awarded a Jazz Masters fellowship by the National Endowment for, the arts. Dijanette was one of the very few drummers with the daring and musicality to open a recording with a four-minute drum solo, as he did here on his 1979 disc New Directions in Europe. Jack Dijanette was one of a kind.

Jazz critic Martin Johnson writes for the Wall Street Journal and downbeat. Tomorrow on fresh air, we'll remember Rob Reiner and re-broadcast the interview we recorded just a few months ago. We talked about his TV shows and his movies, his relationship with his father, Carl Reiner, a TV pioneer, and what it was like to grow up in a showbiz family and become a star himself at a relatively young age. I hope you'll join us.

To keep up with what's on the show and get highlights of our interviews, follow us on Instagram at NPR Fresh Air. Our co-host is Tanya Mosley. I'm Terry Gross. Thank you.