Remembering Esmond Harmsworth: from Monte Carlo to forever

This is taking all of my will and energy to write. My dear friend Esmond Harmsworth passed away suddenly a few days ago and I don't feel like doing much of anything anymore. He was my anchor, my confidant, my mentor, my cheerleader. He was also a faithful reader of this column. Just this January, he texted me: "I'm so enjoying your current series on Substack. You have so many things exactly right! It's a pleasure to read." So, dear reader… I will keep this week's post short. My heart isn't in writing something smart, witty, or helpful. But I wanted to honor him, so I'll share the following letter I wrote to him, in the hopes that he can still read it from heaven:

Dear Esmond,

From the day I met you in that garden in Monte Carlo, to the last dinner we shared in New York, I will cherish every moment I had with you.

When I first saw you, you were dressed in full tails, fresh off a plane from Eton, driven by your mother’s chauffeur straight to our hotel, where your mother had rented five rooms and turned them into her apartment. Your father had just died which was probably why you looked glum. You stepped into the garden looking like you belonged to another world. I was a wild thing, a Mowgli figure, barefoot, mop of curly unruly hair, sun-tanned, and just finished swinging from a tree rope while yelling like Tarzan. Anyway, you looked rather stunned.

I convinced you to sit in a rotten cane chair in the corner—and you fell straight through it. There you were, wedged like you were on a toilet, with your legs in the air and your dignity hanging by a thread. I laughed so hard I nearly peed my pants. You were furious—at first. But then, like only you could, you forgave me and said: “Let’s break out of this place.” And that is how I was introduced to playing ding-dong ditch.

And that was our beginning.

From that moment on, we shared everything: ridiculous jokes ("Your cat is in my garden"), Monty Python, dirty postcards (the USPS enclosed one in an envelope), nude Spanish dances, Christmas caroling misadventures that nearly brought the police, toga parties, dancing A LOT, deep talks, and books—so many books. I was always in awe of how you could devour multiple volumes during a single transatlantic flight, your mind constantly hungry for new ideas. It was no surprise when you became such a successful literary agent—your brilliance and genuine love of literature made you exceptional at recognizing talent in others. We also shared classical music concerts in Boston and in Newport, and so, so much laughter.

You were always there for the big moments, too. When I was pregnant at 18 and too scared to speak it aloud, you knew. You took me to Second Beach and gave me space; and in your silence, I felt loved. When it came to my daughter, your god-daughter, you always found ways to encourage her, validate her worth, and give her a sense of belonging. You visited me in Switzerland, welcomed me to Porto Cervo, invited me into your life again and again. You even let me use one of your offices in Boston to participate in a karate zoom class. (You took the picture below of yours truly 'Surprise visitor in the office.')

You introduced me to your wonderful husband and your beautiful children. We walked with our dogs on the beach and talked about philosophy, life, and the beauty and absurdity of it all. Today, at the beach, there was a basket on to the chain-link fence filled with tennis balls and a sign “In Memory of Chloe” with a picture of an adorable Corgi. I wanted to put a sign “In Memory of Esmond” with a picture of you and a basket full of books. You gave generously, loved fiercely, laughed loudly, and lived fully.

You were kind. You were wise. You were outrageous. And you were one of my truest, oldest friends.

I miss you more than words can express. Thank you for every memory, every ridiculous and beautiful moment. I carry you with me. Always.

With all my love,
Diana