"Lili and I saw a dead man on West 11th. He had jumped from a sixth-floor window, landed on a car, and rolled into the street, where he was lying in an ever-expanding pool of blood. You could see that on the way down he'd hit a tree. I wondered if, at the last minute, he'd changed his mind and tried to grab hold of the branches, many of which were broken now. A crowd formed and some boys who'd seen him jump claimed to have heard his skull crack."
This is obviously not a joke and not at all funny, and nor are many of the other entries in Sedaris' book. Life is overwhelmingly not funny.
His original plan for this book was to publish a file called "Diary that works", which he's kept since he started doing public readings in 1986, and that is made up entirely of things audiences have laughed at, but his editor suggested he also include non-funny entries to help give the book a narrative arc: a sense of him going from the squalor and heavy drug use of his 20s - when a typical diary entry "fuelled by meth" would go on for pages - to the international success of his middle age.
"I just worried that a lot of the non-funny things - I just didn't know that anyone would care about them or be interested in them," Sedaris says. "I have zero interest in getting in front of an audience and reading things that aren't funny."
Much of what he writes, both in this book and elsewhere, is about himself and his life and the other people in it, most notably his family.
"Usually, I find when I'm writing about somebody in my family," he says, "it's stuff that they know is funny. So they're in control of that laugh. I don't ever feel like you're laughing at them, because they know that it's funny. But, yeah, you are always walking that line."
That line is the one between being a decent person and being the funniest writer in the world. Last month, in an article in The New Yorker, Sedaris revealed that his mother, who died in 1991, was an alcoholic. His father was not happy about the revelation.
"I think my father doesn't understand that I can say bad things - not bad things - but I can say things like that about my mother and it just makes her more real to people and it just actually makes people love her more, because if your version is like, 'Oh, my mother is wonderful, she's a wonderful person, she's a wonderful mother and a wonderful person,' no one's going to believe that."
Sedaris' sister Tiffany killed herself in 2013, more than 10 years after the period covered by the diary entries in the book. Fragments from her life appear occasionally in the book, and they're generally very bleak:
November 9, 2000
Greencastle, Indiana
"On Tuesday afternoon she cried while telling me a story she'd recounted a year before. She cries a lot and the episodes generally end with a list of things she's doing for herself. 'I get out of bed in the mornings. Do you understand? I get up.' The accomplishments are tiny, but I guess they're all she's got."
Tiffany doesn't feature much, in part because she drifted in and out of Sedaris' life, and the life of their family, but mostly because he felt it wouldn't have been the right thing to publish most of what he'd recorded in his diary.
"If it was your sister, I would have included it," he says. "I just knew that she wouldn't have wanted people knowing that, because it was bad stuff. I mean, it was bad stuff. Really entertaining - it killed me not to put it in there actually."
Almost certainly a joke.
In early 1988, having recently been through a bad break-up, while living in Chicago, Sedaris wrote:
Reasons to live:
Christmas
The family beach trip
Writing a published book
Seeing my name in a magazine
Watching C. grow bald
Ronnie Ruedrich
Seeing Amy on TV
Other people's books
Outliving my enemies
Being interviewed by Terry Gross on Fresh Air.
Because of what he's now achieved, these dreams appear ludicrously modest and quaint, so it's funny to see them written down. He's written multiple best-selling books, his name has been in the world's most prestigious magazines and newspapers at the top of some of the world's funniest writing, and he's been interviewed many times by Terry Gross, America's Kim Hill. Even his dream of seeing Amy (his sister) on TV has been almost comically exceeded, as she's become one of America's most brilliant and prolific comedy actors.
At the time he wrote this list, though, Sedaris's life was characterised by poverty and nightly visits to the International House of Pancakes, where he could read and write for long periods, having had to pay for only a single pot of coffee.
He was 31, had graduated from art school the previous year and was working a string of horrible jobs. His boss at the wood-stripping job he'd started the week before had told him one day later that "it just wasn't working out."
In 1991, by which time he was living in New York, he wrote, "I'm down to $190 and am starting to panic. In this situation, I have no business buying pot, but that's what I did. Scotch too."
Almost exactly one year later, America's National Public Radio aired a story he had written, called SantaLand Diary, about his time working as a Christmas elf at Macy's department store, and his life changed.
"Yesterday morning my story aired on NPR's Morning Edition," he wrote on December 24, 1992. "I was called by William, Allyn, and several strangers. The moment I'd start talking to someone, call-waiting would act up. At 10 I left for the first of today's four cleaning jobs, and when I returned at 6, my machine was full of messages, most of them from people I don't know who'd looked me up in the phone book. A woman from Oregon called, a guy who runs a theatre in Philadelphia, a writer for a TV show; two NPR stations left messages saying they were flooded - their word - with calls from people wanting to get in touch with me ... It was all I ever wanted."
Two months later, he had a two-book deal with prestigious publisher Little, Brown and his days as a frequent drug-using, odd-job-doing dilettante were numbered.
One of the most striking things about Sedaris' life as depicted in the diaries is his resilience.
For most of the first 300 pages, his life really sucks.
In an entry from March 13, 1989, a man approaches him at his Chicago train station and asks what the neighbourhood is like.
"I didn't want to be the voice of doom," he writes, "and told him that nothing terrible has ever happened to me here, which is true. Then I said that I fully expected something terrible to happen, which is also the truth.
"Why live in a place where you expect trouble? He could have asked me that, but he didn't."
There are seemingly endless horrible incidents in Sedaris' pre-1992 life: people treating him badly, calling him names, spitting in his face, trying to steal stuff from him; but he almost never writes about it with any particular sense of upset or grievance, and sometimes he does it with almost a sense of joy.
He mentions to me that he is now 60. It's not exactly surprising, but it's a bit jarring because the Sedaris who appears in his writing feels somehow more youthful. I ask how it feels to say he's 60.
"Oh it feels awful to say I'm 60. But I also get to say I'm rich. So I think that makes it a little bit easier. If you had to say, 'I'm 60 and I'm poor,' that would really suck. But, 'I'm 60 and I'm rich,' is okay.
He laughs. I laugh. Definitely a joke.
