We called her Susan

Susan Sontag, who died yesterday at 71, was one of the few intellectuals with whom Americans have ever been on a first-name basis. It wasn...

Susan Sontag, who died yesterday at 71, was one of the few intellectuals with whom Americans have ever been on a first-name basis. It wasn8217;t intimacy that gave her this status; it was that like Marilyn and like Judy, she was so much a star that she didn8217;t need a surname. In certain circles, at least, she was just Susan, even to people who had never met her but who would nevertheless talk knowledgeably and intimately about her latest piece in The New York Review of Books, her position on Sarajevo, her verdict on the new W. G. Sebald book8230;

Part of the appeal was her own glamour 8212; the black outfits, the sultry voice, the trademark white stripe parting her long dark hair. The other part was the dazzle of her intelligence and the range of her knowledge; she had read everyone, especially all those forbidding Europeans 8212; Artaud, Benjamin, Canetti, Barthes, Baudrillard, Gombrowicz, Walser and the rest 8212; who loomed off on what was for many of us the far and unapproachable horizon8230;

Ms. Sontag could be a divisive figure, and she was far from infallible, as when she embraced revolutionary communism after traveling to Hanoi in 1968 and later declared the United States to be a 8220;doomed country 8230; founded on a genocide.8221; But what her opponents sometimes failed to credit was her willingness to change her mind; by the 808217;s she was denouncing communism for its human-rights abuses, and by the 908217;s she had extended her critique to include the left in general, for its failure to encourage intervention in Bosnia and Rwanda8230;

There was about most of her work a European sobriety and high-mindedness and an emphasis on the moral, rather than sensual, pleasures of art and the imagination. Her reputation rests on her nonfiction 8212; especially the essays in 8220;Against Interpretation8221; and 8220;Styles of Radical Will8221; and the critical studies 8220;On Photography8221; and 8220;Illness as Metaphor8221; 8212; while the 1967 novel 8220;Death Kit,8221; written to a highbrow formula of dissociation, now seems all but unreadable.

For a while Ms. Sontag took the French position that in the right hands criticism was an even higher art form than imaginative literature, but in the 808217;s she announced that she was devoting herself to fiction8230;

Ms Sontag was too much a critic and essayist to stick to her resolve; her last book, 8220;Regarding the Pain of Others8221; 2003, was nonfiction, an outspoken tract on how we picture suffering. Last May she expanded on those ideas for an article in The New York Times Magazine about the abuses at Abu Ghraib prison. This piece was classic, provocative Sontag. But those late novels, playful and theatrical, are a reminder that behind that formidable, opinionated and immensely learned persona there was another Sontag, warmer and more vulnerable, whom we got to see only in glimpses.

Excerpted from an obituary by Charles McGrath in 8216;The New York Times8217;, December 29