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Obits act as cultural barometers |
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Written by Julia Keller, Chicago Tribune/MCT
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Wednesday, 08 August 2007 |
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In ancient times, an important death was announced by the solemn tolling of a great bell lodged high in the steeple of a stone church, with wonder and awe trailing in the wake of the somber and plangent sounds. These days, a death is more likely to be heralded by a cell phone ring tone featuring a tinny version of "Play That Funky Music."
And so it was that I learned of Bill Walsh's death. Friends called late Monday, informing me of the football coach's passing. They called because they knew I admired Walsh, a dapper and elegant individual who rose above the sport's grunting hordes, and because knowing someone's preferences amid the famous is one of the prime directives of friendship. Whom we mourn is an instant index of our passions, our earnest curiosities; it's a shortcut to getting a fix on our souls.
Tuesday's paper carried notice of an odd trio of notable deaths: Walsh; director Ingmar Bergman; and talk-show host Tom Snyder. Three men who excelled in utterly different fields: sports, film, gab. To see them grouped in the lower-right hand corner of the Tribune's front page, a sort of boxed-set of obituaries, was to realize just how much we are defined by the deaths to which we are drawn. Death comes to all, but not all deaths matter to all people.
Reading about the dead is one of the great pleasures of life. Not just for the reason sometimes put forward - the gentle relief felt by the living when contemplating the deceased - but because obituaries so beautifully tidy up all the messiness, all the loose ends and funny detours and unfinished business.
Gridiron genius or finicky filmmaker or nocturnal conversationalist: The paths of glory lead but to the grave, but along the way, they also wind past an accounting of what we admire and prize. You are what you grieve. | Only registered users can write comments.
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