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I suspect that the thing we should most value Mark for, outside of his appealing (and sometime appalling) honesty, was his chutzpah. I am thinking about the way the interview with Hawking came about. Mark set the whole thing up, and somehow got his dreadful space-age gurney maneuvered into the meeting hall at UC-Berkeley where the physicist was appearing. I can almost picture it now. Hawking in his little chair, with his motionless face and his typing-talking machine; O'Brien laid out flat on his back on his gurney, his face pressed to the side, his voice barely audible:

O'Brien: Do you ever feel frustration, rage at being disabled?

Hawking: No.

O'Brien: Does your work help you to deal with these feelings?

Hawking: Yes. I have been lucky. I don't have anything to be angry about.

Pure O'Brien. He wasn't interested in the stars, or in time, or even in the history of time. He was trying to get Hawking to talk about his feelings -- to talk about this astonishing thing that had happened to his body, and what it did to his psyche. For O'Brien, and I, and all our disabled friends know that there is no one in the world, not even a mental giant like Hawking, who can lose the use of his body without having it resonate powerfully in the soul.

O'Brien: Dr. Hawking, what can you say to all the disabled people who are stuck in nursing homes or living with their parents or in some other untenable situation and who feel that their life is over, that they have no future?

O'Brien later wrote, "As I heard this long question unravel like an ill-mannered ball of yarn, Hawking continued to look at me and typed his answer into the voice synthesizer. I couldn't see his right hand, the one he used to type. I waited. All of us waited. Then the silence was cracked by the voice synthesizer's crisp, booming voice."

Hawking: It can be very difficult. I know that I was very fortunate. All I can say is that one must do the best one can in the situation in which one finds oneself.

The good doctor left him in the lurch, didn't he? Refused to show even a teeny bit of what they call "emotion" or "feeling." O'Brien blew it, didn't he? Maybe. Except for the fact that those of us who have long ago penetrated that ghastly myth of disabled courage against all odds know that O'Brien was onto something -- something to teach the teacher. Something that (perhaps) Hawking, if he is lucky, has, by now, finally figured out: It hurts. And there doesn't have to be any shame in that hurt.

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If we were to do something silly like try to create an epitaph for Mark, I probably would not dwell on his books, or his angry articles about Jack Kevorkian, or his fine baseball stories, or even the 1997 Oscar -- that wonderful present for him and Jessica Yu, who directed the documentary film "Breathing Lessons: The Life and Work of Mark O'Brien."

I would, rather, choose to engrave, on the stone, a poem -- one he wrote 10 years ago, titled, with typical (and delicious) O'Brien-esque irony: "Lifestyles of the Blind and Paralyzed":

The pay is lousy,
no vacations or sick leave,
and the compliments ...
You'd rather do without them.

On the plus side,
you're exempt from military service,
get to watch lots of TV
and pay half price at the movies.

They're out there, my public,
dying to ask me what happened to you,
wondering how I pee
and using me as proof

that God is just
and punishes only the wicked.

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