I generally get stage fright speaking in front of more than 3 or 4 people. (I see a few more than that now.) And yet when Anya asked me to speak at this gathering, I said yes without hesitation. After all, it was Mark. How could I not? Though I did have to write it out to be able to do it.

I'm always reluctant to bore people--and I know Mark would not have wanted me to bore any of his friends. So instead of merely reciting the qualities we all knew so well in Mark, qualities I'm sure will be mentioned often--his gentleness, his exquisite sense of humor, his thoughtfulness, his intelligence, his modesty, his compassion, his unfailing kindness--things we are all holding in our vision--I thought I'd talk about some of the more eccentric aspects of our friend's character.

One odd thing that always struck me was Mark's truly miraculous ability to tell a politically incorrect joke without offending anybody. I wish I knew his secret, because I could never pull it off (and in fact have gotten in trouble trying). What was the source of this mysterious gift? I'm convinced it had to do with the fact that Mark could tell such a joke without the slightest taint of meanness or condescension in his soul. It was his purity that carried it off. Despite the air of naughtiness, the point of the joke was never to put anyone down. Rather the joke was a kind of self parody, a mock impropriety built around a core of deep acceptance, an embrace of the whole human enterprise--not unlike that of Mark's good friend Will (Shakespeare, that is--most of you know him--he and Mark were close.) (Quite a few politically incorrect jokes in Shakespeare, actually.) In Mark's case, one had such trust in the joke-teller's kind intentions that one knew beyond a doubt that the levity offered was utterly free of cruelty. (I know you're all probably dying to hear an example, but given my own joke-telling limitations, I think we'll skip it.)

However, here's another mystery: why did Mark blink when he looked at you? I don't really know--maybe it was a malfunction of the eyelids--but it was such an expression of his charm that I can't help connecting it with a certain kindly attention that he bestowed without fail on anyone speaking to him. He may have found the other person unpersuasive, tedious, errant in their thinking, or comic (he did have a keen eye for the risible aspects of human behavior), but he never found them undeserving of attention and compassion, and he always treated them with a scrupulous respect. Blinking seemed a way of constantly freshening his image, of bringing the other into focus. I think some of you will know what I'm talking about, even if my theory borders on the nutty. The bottom line is that Mark simply never closed his heart to anyone, no matter what he thought of them. An exemplary quality.

On the other hand, Mark's passing brought out a few rather self-centered feelings in me that I'm not especially proud of. But they're interesting--and I bet I'm not alone. For one thing, I feel cheated. There was so much more time I wanted to spend with him. So many more conversations I wanted to have. Now I feel deprived. Damn it, Mark and Anya were coming up this summer to visit us. Now it's all spoiled. (It's amazing how childish one's inner voices can be.) Then there's the nakedly competitive urge to prove I was fonder of Mark than anybody else. (Yes, it's all about me, right?) The reality, of course, is that we all took much the same delight in Mark Taylor. When I look around this room and see all of you, who obviously loved him as deeply as I did, and for the same things--I feel better somehow. I can forgive myself, as I know Mark would have forgiven me.     

Before I wind this up, a little history: I first knew Mark in college, he at Yale, I at a certain rival institution. Later we were graduate students in New York at the same time, and he and Anya and my first wife and I became a rather jolly foursome. Later, when we got divorced, and they of course didn't, Mark and Anya became an extended and very loving family to me and my kids. But Mark and I were actually brought together to begin with by something called the Swine Bowl. The Swine Bowl is a touch football game (I use the term "game" loosely) that's been played annually in Central Park for 55 years by essentially the same core of people, though these days expanded to include wives, children, grandchildren, friends, you name it. Nicky, even Dustin and Courtney, have had their moments of Swine glory. (I see some of the Swine here now.) We never could get Anya to play, though she would always come. But of course, it's not serious, it's mostly clowning around and shmoosing, especially at the age some of us are getting to be. Anyway, the point here is that Mark Taylor was pretty much, year in year out, the funniest person on the field. He liked to rush the passer by cheating on the count of 3 Mississippi, but you couldn't block him because he would crack you up with phony grunts and grimaces. He would announce in the huddle that he was unstoppable, gleefully take the snap and fling the ball downfield toward anyone he could see, preferably a child. He would stroll about the defensive backfield having amiable conversations about Milton or the latest sex scandal. And when we gathered at the annual post-game party, he was--by a wide margin--the life of it. Everyone there was in love with him. I can hardly imagine the next Swine Bowl without him. It will not be easy.    

One last thing about Mark (out of thousands) that endeared him to me, and that I must honor, is his love of funny names. He would either make them up or pounce with relish on ones he heard others using. "Grobus" (that was Anya). "Mr. Laird" (a car he once had, a nondescript Dodge, I believe). "Dogberry," a Shakespearean sobriquet bestowed on a college friend. "Barnule" (that's me). There were lots of others. They never failed to make me laugh, and though they never made it into print, I always thought of them as part of his creative output.

But despite the astonishing originality of Mark's personality, in the end one holds deepest in the memory those essential qualities we have all witnessed and treasured, and which I will, with your permission, once more recite: his gentleness...his exquisite sense of humor...his thoughtfulness...his intelligence...his modesty...his compassion...his unfailing kindness. I have never known a sweeter, more lovable man. His passing breaks my heart.