the long walk started at noon. i didn't know it would turn into a long walk. i thought it would be a miscellaneousmeditation, murray and jack, half an hour's campus meander. but it became a major afternoon, a serious loopingsocratic walk, with practical consequences.
i met murray after his car crash seminar and we wandered along the fringes of the campus, past the cedar-shingledcondominiums set in the trees in their familiar defensive posture—a cluster of dwellings blending so well with theenvironment that birds kept flying into the plate-glass windows.
"you're smoking a pipe," i said.
murray smiled sneakily.
"it looks good. i like it. it works."he lowered his eyes, smiling. the pipe had a long narrow stem and cubical bowl. it was pale brown and resembled ahighly disciplined household implement, perhaps an amish or shaker antique. i wondered if he'd chosen it to matchhis somewhat severe chin whiskers. a tradition of stern virtue seemed to hover about his gestures and expressions.
"why can't we be intelligent about death?" i said.
"it's obvious.""it is?""ivan ilyich screamed for three days. that's about as intelligent as we get. tolstoy himself struggled to understand.
he feared it terribly.""it's almost as though our fear is what brings it on. if we could learn not to be afraid, we could live forever.""we talk ourselves into it. is that what you mean?""i don't know what i mean. i only know i'm just going through the motions of living. i'm technically dead. my bodyis growing a nebulous mass. they track these things like satellites. all this as a result of a byproduct of insecticide.
there's something artificial about my death. it's shallow, unfulfilling. i don't belong to the earth or sky. they ought tocarve an aerosol can on my tombstone.""well said."what did he mean, well said? i vanted him to argue with me, raise my dying to a higher level, make me feel better.
"do you think it's unfair?" he said.
"of course i do. or is that a trite answer?"he seemed to shrug.
"look how i've lived. has my life been a mad dash for pleasure? have i been hellbent on self-destruction, usingillegal drugs, driving fast cars, drinking to excess? a little dry sherry at faculty parties. i eat bland foods.""no, you don't."he puffed seriously on his pipe, his cheeks going hollow. we walked in silence for a while.
"do you think your death is premature?" he said.
"every death is premature. there's no scientific reason why we can't live a hundred and fifty years. some peopleactually do it, according to a headline i saw at the supermarket.""do you think it's a sense of incompleteness that causes you the deepest regret? there are things you still hope toaccomplish. work to be done, intellectual challenges to be faced.""the deepest regret is death. the only thing to face is death. this is all i think about. there's only one issue here. iwant to live.""from the robert wise film of the same name, with susan hayward as barbara graham, a convicted murderess.
aggressive jazz score by johnny mandel."i looked at him.
"so you're saying, jack, that death would be just as threatening even if you'd accomplished all you'd ever hoped toaccomplish in your life and work.""are you crazy? of course. that's an elitist idea. would you ask a man who bags groceries if he fears death notbecause it is death but because there are still some interesting groceries he would like to bag?""well said.""this is death. i don't want it to tarry awhile so i can write a monograph. i want it to go away for seventy or eightyyears.""your status as a doomed man lends your words a certain prestige and authority. i like that. as the time nears, i thinkyou'll find that people will be eager to hear what you have to say. they will seek you out.""are you saying this is a wonderful opportunity for me to win friends?""i'm saying you can't let down the living by slipping into self-pity and despair. people will depend on you to be brave.
what people look for in a dying friend is a stubborn kind of gravel-voiced nobility, a refusal to give in, with momentsof indomitable humor. you're growing in prestige even as we speak. you're creating a hazy light about your ownbody. i have to like it."we walked down the middle of a steep and winding street. there was no one around. the houses here were old andlooming, set above narrow stone stairways in partial disrepair.
"do you believe love is stronger than death?""not in a million years.""good," he said. "nothing is stronger than death. do you believe the only people who fear death are those who areafraid of life?""that's crazy. completely stupid.""right. we all fear death to some extent. those who claim otherwise are lying to themselves. shallow people.""people with their nicknames on their license plates.""excellent, jack. do you believe life without death is somehow incomplete?""how could it be incomplete? death is what makes it incomplete.""doesn't our knowledge of death make life more precious?""what good is a preciousness based on fear and anxiety? it's an anxious quivering thing."'true. the most deeply precious things are those we feel secure about. a wife, a child. does the specter of deathmake a child more precious?""no.""no. there is no reason to believe life is more precious because it is fleeting. here is a statement. a person has to betold he is going to die before he can begin to live life to the fullest. true or false?""false. once your death is established, it becomes impossible to live a satisfying life.""would you prefer to know the exact date and time of your death?""absolutely not. it's bad enough to fear the unknown. faced with the unknown, we can pretend it isn't there. exactdates would drive many to suicide, if only to beat the system."we crossed an old highway bridge, screened in, littered with sad and faded objects. we followed a footpath along acreek, approached the edge of the high school playing field. women brought small children here to play in thelong-jump pits.
"how do i get around it?" i said.
"you could put your faith in technology. it got you here, it can get you out. this is the whole point of technology. itcreates an appetite for immortality on the one hand. it threatens universal extinction on the other. technology is lustremoved from nature.""it is?""it's what we invented to conceal the terrible secret of our decaying bodies. but it's also life, isn't it? it prolongs life,it provides new organs for those that wear out. new devices, new techniques every day. lasers, masers, ultrasound.
give yourself up to it, jack. believe in it. they'll insert you in a gleaming tube, irradiate your body with the basicstuff of the universe. light, energy, dreams. god's own goodness.""i don't think i want to see any doctors for a while, murray, thanks.""in that case you can always get around death by concentrating on the life beyond.""how do i do that?""it's obvious. read up on reincarnation, transmigration, hyperspace, the resurrection of the dead and so on. somegorgeous systems have evolved from these beliefs. study them.""do you believe in any of these things?""millions of people have believed for thousands of years. throw in with them. belief in a second birth, a second life,is practically universal. this must mean something.""but these gorgeous systems are all so different.""pick one you like.""but you make it sound like a convenient fantasy, the worst kind of self-delusion."again he seemed to shrug. 'think of the great poetry, the music and dance and ritual that spring forth from ouraspiring to a life beyond death. maybe these things are justification enough for our hopes and dreams, although iwouldn't say that to a dying man."he poked me with an elbow. we walked toward the commercial part of town. murray paused, raised one foot behindhim, reached back to knock some ashes from his pipe. then he pocketed the thing expertly, inserting it bowl-first inhis corduroy jacket.
"seriously, you can find a great deal of long-range solace in the idea of an afterlife.""but don't i have to believe? don't i have to feel in my heart that there is something, genuinely, beyond this life, outthere, looming, in the dark?""what do you think the afterlife is, a body of facts just waiting to be uncovered? do you think the u.s. air force issecretly gathering data on the afterlife and keeping it under wraps because we're not mature enough to accept thefindings? the findings would cause panic? no. i'll tell you what the afterlife is. it's a sweet and terribly touching idea.
you can take it or leave it. in the meantime what you have to do is survive an assassination attempt. that would be aninstant tonic. you would feel specially favored, you would grow in charisma.""you said earlier that death was making me grow in charisma. besides, who would want to kill me?"once more he shrugged. survive a train wreck in which a hundred die. get thrown clear when your single-enginecessna crashes on a golf course after striking a power line in heavy rain just minutes after takeoff. it doesn't have tobe assassination. the point is you're standing at the edge of a smoldering ruin where others lie inert and twisted. thiscan counteract the effect of any number of nebulous masses, at least for a time."we window-shopped a while, then went into a shoe store. murray looked at weejüns, wallabees, hush puppies. wewandered out into the sun. children in strollers squinted up at us, appearing to think we were something strange.
"has your german helped?""i can't say it has.""has it ever helped?""i can't say. i don't know. who knows these things?""what have you been trying to do all these years?""put myself under a spell, i guess.""correct. nothing to be ashamed of, jack. it's only your fear that makes you act this way.""only my fear? only my death?""we shouldn't be surprised at your lack of success. how powerful did the germans prove to be? they lost the war,after all.""that's what denise said.""you've discussed this with the children?""superficially.""helpless and fearful people are drawn to magical figures, mythic figures, epic men who intimidate and darklyloom.""you're talking about hitler, i take it.""some people are larger than life. hitler is larger than death. you thought he would protect you. i understandcompletely.""do you? because i wish i did.""it's totally obvious. you wanted to be helped and sheltered. the overwhelming horror would leave no room for yourown death. 'submerge me,' you said. 'absorb my fear.' on one level you wanted to conceal yourself in hitler and hisworks. on another level you wanted to use him to grow in significance and strength.
i sense a confusion of means. not that i'm criticizing. it was a daring thing you did, a daring thrust. to use him. i canadmire the attempt even as i see how totally dumb it was, although no dumber than wearing a charm or knockingwood. six hundred million hindus stay home from work if the signs are not favorable that morning. so i'm notsingling you out." 'the vast and terrible depth." "of course," he said. "the inexhaustibility." "i understand."'the whole huge nameless thing." "yes, absolutely." "the massive darkness." "certainly, certainly." 'the wholeterrible endless hugeness." "i know exactly what you mean."he tapped the fender of a diagonally parked car, half smiling. "why have you failed, jack?" "a confusion of means.""correct. there are numerous ways to get around death. you tried to employ two of them at once. you stood out onthe one hand and tried to hide on the other. what is the name we give to this attempt?" "dumb."i followed him into the supermarket. blasts of color, layers of oceanic sound. we walked under a bright bannerannouncing a raffle to raise money for some incurable disease. the wording seemed to indicate that the winnerwould get the disease. murray likened the banner to a tibetan prayer flag.
"why have i had this fear so long, so consistently?" "it's obvious. you don't know how to repress. we're all awarethere's no escape from death. how do we deal with this crushing knowledge? we repress, we disguise, we bury, weexclude. some people do it better than others, that's all." "how can i improve?" "you can't. some people just don'thave the unconscious tools to perform the necessary disguising operations.""how do we know repression exists if the tools are unconscious and the thing we're repressing is so cleverlydisguised?""freud said so. speaking of looming figures."he picked up a box of handi-wrap ii, reading the display type, studying the colors. he smelled a packet ofdehydrated soup. the data was strong today.
"do you think i'm somehow healthier because i don't know how to repress? is it possible that constant fear is thenatural state of man and that by living close to my fear i am actually doing something heroic, murray?""do you feel heroic?""no."'then you probably aren't.""but isn't repression unnatural?""fear is unnatural. lightning and thunder are unnatural. pain, death, reality, these are all unnatural. we can't bearthese things as they are. we know too much. so we resort to repression, compromise and disguise. this is how wesurvive in the universe. this is the natural language of the species."i looked at him carefully.
"i exercise. i take care of my body.""no, you don't," he said.
he helped an old man read the date on a loaf of raisin bread. children sailed by in silver carts.
"tegrin, denorex, selsun blue."murray wrote something in his little book. i watched him step deftly around a dozen fallen eggs oozing yolky matterfrom a busted carton.
"why do i feel so good when i'm with wilder? it's not like being with the other kids," i said.
"you sense his total ego, his freedom from limits.""in what way is he free from limits?""he doesn't know he's going to die. he doesn't know death at all. you cherish this simpleton blessing of his, thisexemption from harm. you want to get close to him, touch him, look at him, breathe him in. how lucky he is. acloud of unknowing, an omnipotent little person. the child is everything, the adult nothing. think about it. aperson's entire life is the unraveling of this conflict. no wonder we're bewildered, staggered, shattered.""aren't you going too far?""i'm from new york.""we create beautiful and lasting things, build vast civilizations.""gorgeous evasions," he said. "great escapes."the doors parted photoelectronically. we went outside, walking past the dry cleaner, the hairstylist, the optician.
murray relighted his pipe, sucking impressively at the mouthpiece.
"we have talked about ways to get around death," he said. "we have discussed how you've already tried two suchways, each cancelling the other. we have mentioned technology, train wrecks, belief in an afterlife. there are othermethods as well and i would like to talk about one such approach."we crossed the street.
"i believe, jack, there are two kinds of people in the world. killers and diers. most of us are diers. we don't have thedisposition, the rage or whatever it takes to be a killer. we let death happen. we lie down and die. but think what it'slike to be a killer. think how exciting it is, in theory, to kill a person in direct confrontation. if he dies, you cannot.
to kill him is to gain life-credit. the more people you kill, the more credit you store up. it explains any number ofmassacres, wars, executions.""are you saying that men have tried throughout history to cure themselves of death by killing others?""it's obvious.""and you call this exciting?""i'm talking theory. in theory, violence is a form of rebirth. the dier passively succumbs. the killer lives on. what amarvelous equation. as a marauding band amasses dead bodies, it gathers strength. strength accumulates like afavor from the gods.""what does this have to do with me?""this is theory. we're a couple of academics taking a walk. but imagine the visceral jolt, seeing your opponentbleeding in the dust.""you think it adds to a person's store of credit, like a bank transaction.""nothingness is staring you in the face. utter and permanent oblivion. you will cease to be. to be, jack. the dieraccepts this and dies. the killer, in theory, attempts to defeat his own death by killing others. he buys time, he buyslife. watch others squirm. see the blood trickle in the dust."i looked at him, amazed. he drew contentedly on his pipe, making hollow sounds.
"it's a way of controlling death. a way of gaining the ultimate upper hand. be the killer for a change. let someoneelse be the dier. let him replace you, theoretically, in that role. you can't die if he does. he dies, you live. see howmarvelously simple.""you say this is what people have been doing for centuries."'they're still doing it. they do it on a small intimate scale, they do it in groups and crowds and masses. kill to live.""sounds pretty awful."he seemed to shrug. "slaughter is never random. the more people you kill, the more power you gain over your owndeath. there is a secret precision at work in the most savage and indiscriminate killings. to speak about this is not todo public relations for murder. we're two academics in an intellectual environment. it's our duty to examine currentsof thought, investigate the meaning of human behavior. but think how exciting, to come out a winner in a deathlystruggle, to watch the bastard bleed.""plot a murder, you're saying. but every plot is a murder in effect. to plot is to die, whether we know it or not."'to plot is to live," he said.
i looked at him. i studied his face, his hands.
"we start our lives in chaos, in babble. as we surge up into the world, we try to devise a shape, a plan. there isdignity in this. your whole life is a plot, a scheme, a diagram. it is a failed scheme but that's not the point. to plot isto affirm life, to seek shape and control. even after death, most particularly after death, the search continues. burialrites are an attempt to complete the scheme, in ritual. picture a state funeral, jack. it is all precision, detail, order,design. the nation holds its breath. the efforts of a huge and powerful government are brought to bear on aceremony that will shed the last trace of chaos. if all goes well, if they bring it off, some natural law of perfection isobeyed. the nation is delivered from anxiety, the deceased's life is redeemed, life itself is strengthened, reaffirmed.""are you sure?" i said.
"to plot, to take aim at something, to shape time and space. this is how we advance the art of human consciousness."we moved in a wide arc back toward campus. streets in deep and soundless shade, garbage bags set out forcollection. we crossed the sunset overpass, pausing briefly to watch the cars shoot by. sunlight bouncing off theglass and chrome.
"are you a killer or a dier, jack?""you know the answer to that. i've been a dier all my life.""what can you do about it?""what can any dier do? isn't it implicit in his makeup that he can't cross over?""let's think about that. let's examine the nature of the beast, so to speak. the male animal. isn't there a fund, a pool,a reservoir of potential violence in the male psyche?""in theory i suppose there is.""we're talking theory. that's exactly what we're talking. two friends on a tree-shaded street. what else but theory?
isn't there a deep field, a sort of crude oil deposit that one might tap if and when the occasion warrants? a great darklake of male rage."'that's what babette says. homicidal rage. you sound like her.""amazing lady. is she right or wrong?""in theory? she's probably right.""isn't there a sludgy region you'd rather not know about? a remnant of some prehistoric period when dinosaursroamed the earth and men fought with flint tools? when to kill was to live?""babette talks about male biology. is it biology or geology?""does it matter, jack? we only want to know whether it is there, buried in the most prudent and unassuming soul.""i suppose so. it can be. it depends.""is it or isn't it there?""it's there, murray. so what?""i only want to hear you say it. that's all. i only want to elicit truths you already possess, truths you've always knownat some basic level.""are you saying a dier can become a killer?""i'm only a visiting lecturer. i theorize, i take walks, i admire the trees and houses. i have my students, my rentedroom, my tv set. i pick out a word here, an image there. i admire the lawns, the porches. what a wonderful thing aporch is. how did i live a life without a porch to sit on, up till now? i speculate, i reflect, i take constant notes. i amhere to think, to see. let me warn you, jack. i won't let up."we passed my street and walked up the hill to the campus.
"who's your doctor?""chakravarty," i said.
"is he good?""how would i know?""my shoulder separates. an old sexual injury.""i'm afraid to see him. i put the printout of my death in the bottom drawer of a dresser.""i know how you feel. but the tough part is yet to come. you've said good-bye to everyone but yourself. how does aperson say good-bye to himself? it's a juicy existential dilemma.""it certainly is."we walked past the administration building.
"i hate to be the one who says it, jack, but there's something that has to be said.""what?""better you than me."i nodded gravely. "why does this have to be said?""because friends have to be brutally honest with each other.
i'd feel terrible if i didn't tell you what i was thinking, especially at a time like this.""i appreciate it, murray. i really do.""besides, it's part of the universal experience of dying. whether you think about it consciously or not, you're aware atsome level that people are walking around saying to themselves, 'better him than me.' it's only natural. you can'tblame them or wish them ill.""everyone but my wife. she wants to die first.""don't be so sure," he said.
we shook hands in front of the library. i thanked him for his honesty.
"that's what it all comes down to in the end," he said. "a person spends his life saying good-bye to other people.
how does he say good-bye to himself?"i threw away picture-frame wire, metal book ends, cork coasters, plastic key tags, dusty bottles of mercurochromeand vaseline, crusted paintbrushes, caked shoe brushes, clotted correction fluid. i threw away candle stubs,laminated placemats, frayed pot holders. i went after the padded clothes hangers, the magnetic memo clipboards. iwas in a vengeful and near savage state. i bore a personal grudge against these things. somehow they'd put me in thisfix. they'd dragged me down, made escape impossible. the two girls followed me around, observing a respectfulsilence. i threw away my battered khaki canteen, my ridiculous hip boots. i threw away diplomas, certificates,awards and citations. when the girls stopped me, i was working the bathrooms, discarding used bars of soap, damptowels, shampoo bottles with streaked labels and missing caps.
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