As writers, we generally think more about life than we do death; it’s simply in virtue of having to construct an entire existence of a character, orchestrate his moves as he navigates his world, decide what kind of person he’s going to be, etc. And, as people, we generally think more about life than we do death, as well, mostly because death is unknown and frightening and far off—and well, because life’s usually a lot more fun.
So, when we’re confronted with death—real death, not death by a writer’s hand—we’re ill-equipped to deal. Or at least I’ve discovered I am. The strangest thing I’ve found through this terrible week has been how much more real death makes life.
Everything’s connected somehow, isn’t it?
M
