But Not Real Death
Dear Rachel,
We are a culture enamored of death, I think. We read novels about serial killers, we follow the real-life horror stories in the newspapers, we go to movies in which murder and mayhem play a substantial part. For some reason, we’re wired to be entranced by violence.
Until it hits too close to home. When it's for real, when it strikes someone we love, when we see too much of real-life death (an ironic phrase, I suppose) up close, we quickly discover that we don’t have the stomach for it that we thought we did.
You never met Lesley’s cousin George, although he lives not far from where you lived. I was always impressed with—and perhaps saddened by—him. A retired officer (a Major or a Colonel, I think), after he came back from ‘Nam, he no longer hunted or fished. He said he’d seen enough of death to last him the rest of his life. I’m not sure he even eats meat any more. What horrors must he have seen to have had such an effect on him? I hope he sleeps soundly these nights.
Since you were killed, I’m finding myself feeling a bit like George. I’d always loved serial killer movies, whodunits, war movies, police procedurals, and the like. (Oddly, I could watch with no problem a movie in which some creep bursts into a school and machine-guns a kindergarten class. On the other hand, if a dog got hurt, I would be in tears.) Now I’m finding that I have to be very careful about what movies I watch and what books I read.
I’m still OK with crime books and movies, even if they deal with violent crime—as long as the solution, not the murder, is the focus. If the writer dwells too much or too long or too explicitly on the murder itself, I find that I have to put it down or turn it off.
I found this to be true even of books that I wouldn’t have thought would bother me. I just read the new biography of Truman Capote (wonderful book) and figured I’d reread “In Cold Blood.” Couldn’t do it. Had to put it away for another day. (Or possibly another year.)
I keep discovering new wrinkles to this, new ripples, ramifications that hadn’t occurred to me. I wonder if the man who shot you knows how many people he really killed that night, how many of us suffer still. I’d imagine that he’s suffering, too. But not enough for me.
Love,
Dad
We are a culture enamored of death, I think. We read novels about serial killers, we follow the real-life horror stories in the newspapers, we go to movies in which murder and mayhem play a substantial part. For some reason, we’re wired to be entranced by violence.
Until it hits too close to home. When it's for real, when it strikes someone we love, when we see too much of real-life death (an ironic phrase, I suppose) up close, we quickly discover that we don’t have the stomach for it that we thought we did.
You never met Lesley’s cousin George, although he lives not far from where you lived. I was always impressed with—and perhaps saddened by—him. A retired officer (a Major or a Colonel, I think), after he came back from ‘Nam, he no longer hunted or fished. He said he’d seen enough of death to last him the rest of his life. I’m not sure he even eats meat any more. What horrors must he have seen to have had such an effect on him? I hope he sleeps soundly these nights.
Since you were killed, I’m finding myself feeling a bit like George. I’d always loved serial killer movies, whodunits, war movies, police procedurals, and the like. (Oddly, I could watch with no problem a movie in which some creep bursts into a school and machine-guns a kindergarten class. On the other hand, if a dog got hurt, I would be in tears.) Now I’m finding that I have to be very careful about what movies I watch and what books I read.
I’m still OK with crime books and movies, even if they deal with violent crime—as long as the solution, not the murder, is the focus. If the writer dwells too much or too long or too explicitly on the murder itself, I find that I have to put it down or turn it off.
I found this to be true even of books that I wouldn’t have thought would bother me. I just read the new biography of Truman Capote (wonderful book) and figured I’d reread “In Cold Blood.” Couldn’t do it. Had to put it away for another day. (Or possibly another year.)
I keep discovering new wrinkles to this, new ripples, ramifications that hadn’t occurred to me. I wonder if the man who shot you knows how many people he really killed that night, how many of us suffer still. I’d imagine that he’s suffering, too. But not enough for me.
Love,
Dad
posted by Rod at 4:04 PM
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