Ethan J. Magder
Ethan was a gifted writer, artist, and storyteller whose creativity was fueled by an insatiable curiosity about people and the world around him. Thoughtful, funny, and deeply perceptive, he had an extraordinary ability to examine life's complexities from every angle and express them with honesty, intelligence, and wit.
Writing was Ethan's greatest passion. Through journals, essays, poetry, song lyrics, and fiction, he explored everything from relationships and philosophy to addiction, identity, and the search for meaning. He also expressed his creativity through painting, wrote rap lyrics, and taught himself to play guitar. Shortly before his passing, he began writing a novel inspired by his own life, hoping his story might one day help others facing similar struggles. Although unfinished, the manuscript reveals the courage and authenticity that defined his voice.
After Ethan's passing, his family discovered a collection of creative work that had remained largely unseen, including journals filled with reflections, essays, poetry, song lyrics, paintings, a half-written screenplay, and the opening chapters of his novel. Together, these works reveal a young artist whose creativity was boundless and whose voice continues to resonate long after his passing.
Ethan passed away in 2017 at the age of 28 while serving in the Israel Defense Forces, following an accidental overdose. The discovery of his creative work became the inspiration for The Artist Lives, a nonprofit dedicated to preserving the artistic legacies of those whose voices might otherwise have been lost. Through his words, Ethan's legacy continues not only through his own creations but also through the countless artists and families whose stories are now being preserved because of him.
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It’s the ultimate battle. And there shall be a victor.
I know I can win. He stares at me with a grin.
He points his fiery sword toward my eyes.
He tries to make me cry, but it’s no use.
I shall suffer no more abuse.
For my control is too great and my wisdom too bright.
Back to hell...
I hope you are gone for the night.
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What will become of me when I have nothing to be, when all my thoughts are gone, and all my emotions are torn.
I hope I can survive, I hope I can stay strong.
You know what?
I know I will, this poem is my farewell song.
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I get my news mostly from satirical programs. I find them to be the most truthful and straightforward. In satire you will find a sense of dry humor or sarcasm. Sarcasm is just another way for things to be spelled out.
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I want to write about my childhood. I want to write about growing up in North Carolina. I have such vivid pictures in my head that need to be written down before I forget. I want to write about the summers where I would walk for miles with my friends under the hot sun amongst the thick stagnant air. I want to recapture the vast wooded trails in the fall where at the end of the day all you could hear is the crunching of the leaves under your feet and your nostrils becoming inflamed by the cool menthol breeze that is flavored with the scent of pine. I miss the way the street lights illuminated the dead black concrete at night. You can see this effect produced anywhere, but only there am I affected by it. It’s as if I need glasses, and only there, I can find the right prescription.
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I want to go home. I can’t take school anymore today. The whole day is not going in my favor. I have nothing to do when I get home and I need to think about how I’m going to be able to sleep tonight. I hope I will be able to sleep tonight. I hope everything will turn out in my favor. If I don’t sleep tonight I’m going to go crazy. As much anxiety as I have about this I have a sneaky feeling that things will work out. Ninety nine percent of the time I get my way. Ninety nine! What am I talking about? I mean like seventy five! I wish I had three beers and a full pack of cigarettes right now. I wouldn’t mind a joint with that too. I really just want to plop down on my bed at home, and turn off my head.
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I have read dozens upon dozens of acceptance letters, and noticed an overwhelmingly abused theme. Strife. Handfuls of people who recall their life stories in the briefest sense possible highlighting their most trying of times. I am a child of divorce. I overcame addiction. I battled with this and that. While these personal accounts are by no means unimportant, and understandably demonstrate discipline and other admirable qualities, they are not assurances of passion. My goal is not to just demonstrate my sense of discipline and eagerness to expand my learning, but foremost my passion to succeed. For me to relive all the significant character defining moments of my life would take far too long. Instead allow me to demonstrate my sense of awareness which will shed light on the passion that drives me.
A person can become self aware in one of two ways. The expansion of knowledge, or through suffering. For me it was both. At the age of twenty three I experienced my greatest awakening, getting back in touch with Judaism. Virtually overnight I had an epiphany. Something sparked in my brain that awakened a level of spirituality that I had never felt before. I began meticulously learning Torah day in and day out. Everyday I was reaching a higher state of self awareness and attaining discipline. A quality I lacked my whole life. I realized that for me it was not enough to live just for myself. I had to believe that there was a higher power at work. Even while, during that time, my body and mind were being ravaged by two rare tick borne illnesses, I never lost my faith.
As a young boy I had always searched for something mystical, or the unseen. As a twenty three year old man I had finally found it. I found that piece of meaning that most people go their whole lives and never even realize exists. It’s this piece of meaning that drives me. It’s this piece of meaning that removed the veil from my eyes and had given me my most profound idea to date.
Romanticism. Romanticism is by far the deadliest poison. Nowadays it is the absolute driving force behind human beings in the western world. Romanticism keeps one enveloped in dissolution, and disconnected from what is important. It causes us to sacrifice ourselves in pursuit of an empty, and meaningless endeavor. If a person ends up attaining their romanticized goal they feel empty. The realization sets in that this is not at all what I dreamt it would be? This is because that’s all it was. A dream.
To believe that our romantic desires will manifest themselves in reality as they do inside each individual persons mind is more than just delusional. It's dangerous. It causes us to make the world into something it's not. Nor has it ever been or will ever be. Romanticism is today's greatest distraction from mans pursuit of truth and righteousness. It is the product of materialism and vanity. It is the very thing that can draw a young man to the battlefield in hopes of achieving glory and valor. It is the very thing that causes men to give up their lives in pursuit of quasi romantic love with women. It is the very thing that causes people to have unnatural attachments to their families. It is everything that is wrong with todays world. It casts a dark shadow over humanity by providing people the option of not having to think about the truth. It leads to selfishness, jealousy, hate, fear, and a vast array of negative emotions. All of which are centered on aspects set only in the physical world. Todays world is comprised solely of a physical nature. Today I see through the basic physical distractions the modern world has to offer. For the first time in my life I have conquered the animal inside me like all humans bear to some degree. I feel I see the world for what it truly is. Now that I am no longer blind, I can finally move forward. I am no longer the fool that fights with his body. I am no longer the animal who fights with his heart. I am the human who fights with his soul.
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The death of the American dream is almost here. I see bits and pieces of it everyday- while I’m watching tv, while I’m in the supermarket, or while I’m just walking down the street aimlessly. There is nothing we can do to stop it, or maybe we don’t want to stop it. Maybe just thinking about this so called American dream falling apart is what’s giving America the chaos it thrives on. Everybody says to themselves at least once or twice that this country is going straight to hell. Only one question remains, do these people even care? The people saying such a thing could be the very same people that are killing this country and the dream. The ruthless bastards go out and run around and exceed happiness from it. So wait, is this not the American dream? Maybe it is and maybe it isn’t. I believe that the dream can be achieved two ways. One is by staying within the boundaries of the so called honorable country or you can go out there and take advantage if everything this country puts in front of you and achieve your own personal idea of excess. So then, what is this about the death of the American dream. What most of it is, is Americans are too lazy to get up off their ass and acknowledge the fact that something like this is possible, or for that matter a step away. The rest of it is something that a lot of people would never put into words including me. In my opinion though it is some kind of wild free thinking culture that is now long gone. I’m sure it goes deeper than that, but for now I think it’s too late for America and the people.
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I'm afraid to say that my childhood wasn't anymore traumatic than the next kid. Okay so my parents got divorced, and my father lost his business. I guess you could say that was bad, but it wasn't the worst. I grew up like any average American kid. Above average that is. A nice comfy upper middle class life.
My parents loved me unconditionally, and always went out of their way to make sure I had every thing. I don't know if they were in love or what, but they got married and a year later in 1989 I was born. My sister Abigail was born three years later. I was told that the day she came home from the hospital I struck her over the head with a VHS tape and demanded she be exchanged for a tall brother. Fast forward to the first grade. This is where I'm able to recall my first memories. I never had any problems physically or emotionally. I was a very normal kid. Incredibly outgoing. Always needing to be the center of attention. With the exception of being a little chubby around twelve I had it made. I had the support of the people around me and never had to struggle.
Then the lying came. I don't know why I lied. Maybe it wasn't abnormal, but I would lie about anything. Anything that could make me seem cooler, or make my life sound more interesting. Self image was everything to me, and given the fact that I was an overweight twelve year old I guess you could say my insecurity was semi warranted. So there you have it, the environment that helped nurture me.
Now I'll start at the significant moment which led me down this brutal and forever scarring path of my own creation. The year was 2007 right after I graduated High School in Great Neck Long Island. I spent most of my time selling pot out of my mother's house which eventually would spiral out of control leaving me on the other side of the world. I thought it was the life. I was making lots of money from my pot business. I never thought about the future. The truth was I didn't really care if I lived or died. I had attempted to go to college. After all isn't that what every middle class American kid does upon completion of high school? I had several options, but my family and I agreed it would be best to do one year at a community college, improve my grades and get into the best school possible. That was the beginning of the shit storm.
My friends? They were some of the worst and best people humanity had to offer. Most of whom are dead now, but we did everything together. Totally living on the edge. We sold drugs and took them as fast as we could sell them, never leaving the house without a pocket full of weed, pills and cocaine. I have this one specific thought in my head. It goes like this. When I stack up all the pieces of my life like dominoes and look at them all at once I want to fall to my knees and scream. So much has happened, so much pain, so much destruction. I wish you could see all the pieces of my life at once and feel the emotion they perpetuate. All the time that could have been utilized toward a true passion. The things that are really important. I think back sometimes and wonder how it would be if I had written something everyday of my life. Yeah I'm sure some of it would be incoherent. Probably a lot of it not even worth using. Regardless of that I would still have a mountain full of content. Probably enough decent stuff to write one hundred books.
So this is where I am today. Slipping in and out of opiate withdrawal at the age of 28 in a hostel buried in the heart of Jerusalem, the old city. I've finished a year in the Israeli army with a full blown drug habit the whole time. Don't ask me how, but now the veil has been lifted. Something has changed. My father came for a visit last week and helped me see the reality of my self destructiveness. He sat with me through my withdrawal for maybe about the 30th time in my life. He never gives up on me. When he left in the taxi today the last thing he said to me was take care of me will ya. Not the usual take care of yourself, but rather take care of me. Something in that struck me. It made me realize that time is of the essence and if I want to follow my heart and be true to myself I have no time to waste.
We spend so much time telling the people around us how busy we are and that we don't have time, but when we look back on our past we quiver when we think about all the wasted time. Everyday I have to act. Every single fucking day. No matter how much like garbage I feel, I have to act here and now, because if I stop moving for one second I'm dead. I have to think ahead to the future and know that most days I'll probably lack the motivation to even get out of bed.
The more I write the more I can see how much I've deteriorated. I want to tell my story. If I can prevent one like minded person from walking down the same path I did, my voice will have been heard. I have to do better. It's all catching up with me now. Time to run again. I hope I make it to the finish line.
Ethan painted this portrait of Hunter Thompson from a photograph while he was in high school
