Wilson was one of those people who was so universally liked—so quietly charismatic—that it was hard to know what was going on inside him. It was a slow unraveling—getting to know these people. But reading their fiction, a lot of it was right there. When I started reading Wilson’s stories, I was shocked at how sad they were. It wasn’t that his laughter or his smiles were fake. The things that he saw humor in were the same things that made him sad. He couldn’t separate the two. Or maybe it was the other way around. The things that made him sad, if you looked at them hard enough, in a certain
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