Not now, not even soon, but some day. Right now I am too busy living. Dying is such a waste of time.
I hate to give away the
ending but Shakespeare did in the first ten lines of Romeo and Juliette.
From forth the fatal loins of these two foes
A pair of star-cross’d lovers take their
life.
Again in two of my favorite novels (The Transit of Venus and The
Hand That First Held Mine) around page 57 we learn that the protagonist
will die young and one in a plane crash yet. Now I know what she doesn’t know.
For the next 200 pages I find myself anxious for her. What seems like a spoiler
actually creates more tension. It may be counter-intuitive but it is a clever
device.
By telling us, maybe the author is also declaring that she
subordinates plot to either the larger issues raised or her language itself.
Plot may be nothing more than the piece of red meat the burglar tosses to the
watchdog while he raids the house.
In the real world, of course, we also know the last page but
spend our lives convinced it doesn’t apply to us. We start dying the day we’re
born and start living. Fortunately I’m now too old to die young. If it said so
on page 57 it must have slipped my mind. If I forget to die there are always
enough momento mori around to remind
me.
The Greeks struggled with the notion of mortality. They
invented the gods to account for fate, happenstance and bad hair days. Any
behavior bordering on hubris or otherwise offensive to the imagined
gods received a ruler to the back of the hand… or worse.
Oedipus ended up a husband and son to the same woman,
committed patricide and then got a poke in the eyes, self-inflicted. It was
enough to give him a complex.
The audience knew well the story of the myth but ate up the
telling of it. No spoiler-alerts necessary. Humankind is admonished to know its
place and not stray into the precincts of the gods. Unanswered questions were
to be addressed to Zeus and his accomplices. Messages are answered in the order
received…even if Mt. Olympus is experiencing a high-call volume.
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