RAZER: SAM DE BRITO THE DISSIDENTBY HELEN RAZERTwo weeks ago, the writer Sam de Brito died suddenly at 46 and he left behind a family, a community and obituaries of a word count to rival his own life’s work. Two weeks ago, it seemed improper and pointless to write an account of a man to whom tributes were flowing. Today, though, it seems worthwhile to add some thoughts about this difficult, reasonably significant bastard. His memorial is done and those who loved him have begun the difficult work of naturalising their grief and so it doesn’t seem wrong, and, in fact, feels slightly right to offer memory from another standpoint.I’ll tell you why it feels right in a moment.First, I need to recount the peculiar way I happened to know Sam, and thereby begin to tolerate his project as an annoying, shit-stirring writer. We were by no means close and I had about as much time for his blokey, beachside heroics as he did for my world of wretched shade. He was pure Bondi who lived hard in the sun and spent big. I am a thrifty suburbanite who looks to the Melbourne sky only to see if her cabbages need water. Sam was flash and friendly whereas I am slow and cold. But, we were connected by circumstance and so began to speak every few weeks by phone.