Wow Max. It’s so rare for me to read things that make me cry. Whitney was part of the soundtrack to my life too.

As a white South African having just moved to New York at 21, I vividly recall her first album, Whitney, and, in this recollection, how utterly consumed by the Clive Davis/Arista narrative I was.

I only felt true compassion and empathy for Whitney in retrospect, although I was mortified by the cruelty of her treatment during the National Enquirer days of bathroom photos and 3 am gas station runs. And in my younger days, of course knew about the Robin rumors, but resented her choosing the closet. I thought her Bobby Brown relationship was unauthentic and beneath her (but felt the same about Madonna and Guy Richie, Tina and Ike and of course Liza and whatshisname), and fully bought into the holier than thou narrative that she was wasting her talent, despite, as an addict, knowing better. And took absolutely no joy in Perez Hilton and TMZ relentlessly mocking and feeding on the horrors of her final performances.

Your writing is sublime. The lens you provide is so powerful and compelling. Your thoughts and words wash over me with such satisfying, well-crafted depth, nuance and almost familiarity, they make me wish I’d have thought them before you wrote them. And marvel at how remarkably talented you are. Your piece makes me want to rewatch all the documentaries I’ve watched about Whitney, simply to view them again through your perspective.

But most of all, I got to appreciate Whitney in a whole new way, and luxuriate in the exquisite sounds and beauty of the happy ending you gave her.

Your mind and writing are a precious gift. One that couldn’t come at a better time.