Guy Yedwab

Victoria Anderson

10/4/06

It Can't Be Avoided

Here I am.

I'm climbing up the sparse white staircase in the front hall of my friend's house. Where is he?

“Pham, are we ready to go?”

Pham is not ready to go. He is still on the phone, leaning heavily against the black-painted iron

railing overlooking me on the staircase. He's not speaking. He hangs up, and drops the phone to the

floor—a move which, in movies, makes absolute sense, but doesn't make sense in real life.

“Pham?”

“He's dead. He's gone and killed himelf,” Pham replies, with the bitter edge of a wounded

animal.

“Who? What?”

“Garrett. They found him dead. The fucker...”

You don't get to choose when you start thinking about death. You never choose when you start

thinking about death. Something comes and kicks you in the gut. Usually it's blatant, impossible to

ignore, as portrayed in Tatsuya Ishida in the comic Sinfest:

 It happens over and over again. When my friend Garrett Bryant overdosed on left-over

painkillers, I had a lot of time to think about death and mortality—it was, after all, spring break. More

recently, I suddenly found another kick to the stomach that made me start thinking about death again: a

photograph hung in the lobby of the Tisch building.

It's a photo of a girl trapped in the moment of her death, sprawled in bed, an empty cup of tea

tossed by her side. She has died in a moment, by surprise. Whenever I walked by the photo, I felt the

breath stolen from my lungs, felt my eyes lock with her blank ones. Who is she; why is she dead? She

died sometime in the beginning of her life; what would she have done with her life if not for this

unfortunate accident?

It was only very recently that I realized that this was the question of death that had bothered me

equally with Garrett. I don't believe in God; a habit of not believing in God and a lack of any

compelling evidence to change my mind has made sure of that. So what becomes of Garret; what

becomes of this girl in the photo? Has their life been wasted, is that it? Are they to simply rot away and

become forgotten?

Whenever my mind tries to wrap itself around that concept, I feel that same feeling; my breath

is forced out and I feel hot and cold flashing through my body. I cannot bear the thought that I might

die without having finished all of my dreams—my aspirations to creating art, my hopes of changing the

face of history. The famous epitaph is “ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” but I don't want to end up in the

dust. I don't want to end up in the dust.

I am more afraid of dying at the wrong time and amounting to nothing than simply death itself. I

have no conception of death; as Rosencrantz says in Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead, people

imagine being dead as though they were still alive. You can't imagine deathness because it is

completely outside the range of your experience, having been alive all your life. So I am absolutely

confused as to how to approach death.

My favorite philosopher, William James, addressed that very problem when he wrote about his
philosophical school, pragmatism. He believed that we only reexamine our philosophy when our

current world-view (all the ideas and connections we've collected so far) are unable to explain

something. I can't explain death. I can't guess at how I'm going to react to it and all I can see of death—

the end of my consciousness and the end of all I'm working towards—almost cripples me with fear.

Once you begin to reexamine your philosophy, James says, you need to find the views and ideas

which are most easily mixed into your current views and which help you solve the conundrum.

When I'm lost, my eyes wander up to the bookshelf for inspiration from the great books which

have already laid the foundation of my thought. That's where my eyes are right now: on the thin blue

Barnes and Noble book with “Pragmatism – William James” written on the spine.

I'm sitting at my desk, staring at these questions, feeling absolutely terrified. My iTunes is on

shuffle, and out of some sort of perverse schadenfreude, is playing Nirvana's “Lithium.” The grunge

singer Kurt Kobain of Seattle is singing “I love you, I'm not coming back/I miss you, I'm not coming

back.”

My roommate, sitting behind me and dancing a little to acid rock, is not helping me think.

Tapping my finger lightly on the keyboard as I think, I look back up at the books. I have so

many books; I love to fill the empty spaces between my own thoughts with the thoughts of others. And

right now, my thoughts are filled with gaps to fill. I can almost imagine myself inside of the books,

wandering through the paragraphs to find a conversation or passage of interest.

Two Algerians are in a heated discussion. Tarrou is questioning the Doctor, Rieux, about why he

has been fighting the plague that has killed so many of their fellow townspeople, in hopes of figuring

out his own view on death.

“And then I had to see people die. Do you know that there are some people who refuse to die?

Have you ever heard a woman scream 'Never!' with her last gasp?'” Dr. Rieux is saying.

He finds it strange that some people refuse to die; I find it strange that some people throw
themselves to death whole-heartedly. And yet, both of us are confused with how to end our days.

Tarrou, a short, dark-eyed man who writes most of his days, nods. “But your victories will never

be lasting; that's all.”

“Yes, I know that. But it's no reason for giving up the struggle.”

Tarrou nods, because he understands—I, having listened through him, understand a little better

myself. Rieux will fight, because he has something to work towards. One privileged fact that I have

which Tarrou doesn't is that Rieux, a character in the book, goes on to write The Plague himself. The

suffering of his never-ending defeat becomes the glorious victory of The Plague as a masterpiece.

So he wrote a masterpiece, surely that's not a raison d'être. As Woody Allen said, “I don't want

to achieve immortality through my work. I want to achieve immortality through not dying.” If only we

could. But we can't change the fact that we are going to die. And if all we are is our body, then we are

simply going to disappear.

Gross Indecency: The Three Trials of Oscar Wilde, is a play about Oscar Wilde by Moises

Kaufman. Kaufman did not know Wilde; they lived over 100 years apart. Wilde has died and rotted in

the ground, like anyone else in his era. So why didn't Wilde disappear into obscurity like everyone

else? As Tony Kushner writes in the afterword: “Look at the legacy that Wilde's industry has left

behind, from which so much as descended, including this beautiful play.”

Wilde has created something—a body of plays and stories—which last longer than him. They

were committed onto solid paper; from the paper copies they eventually were transcribed onto

computers, performed onstage, recorded on video, and recorded on tape cassette and CD.

I'm in the passenger seat of the car, my forehead pressed against the window, knocking

occasionally against it as the car bounces down the 5 Freeway toward San Diego. During a particularly

barren stretch, the road winds alongside the Pacific Freeway, passing the white observatory-like domes

of the San Onofre Nuclear Power Plant. As my attention wanders into my mind, I suddenly catch sight
of a plain green sign that says “Sergeant John G. Basilone.”

“Hey Tom... who's Sergeant Basilone?”

“How would I know?” my brother answers irritably from the driver's seat. He hates long drives.

“I dunno. They named a street after him—a bit of freeway. He had to have done something,

right?”

I'm at the computer that night. I'm reading the incredible story of John Basilone, who served

with heroism in the battle of Guadacanal. Our victory in Guadacanal was essential in our liberation of

the South Pacific, and this man was essential to our victory.

I can see him when I close my eyes—a young, tall Italian, a machine gun strapped around his

torso, rallying the muddy and beaten troops around him. He charges out of their little trench and into a

narrow pass—straight into the gunfire of the charging Japanese.

The idea of it—the bravery, the heroism, the self-sacrifice—is beautiful. It's a work of art. Of

course, it probably isn't true, at least not like that. Tim O'Brien, in How To Tell A True War Story, would

say that that if “at the end of a war story you feel uplifted... then you have been made the victim of a

very old and terrible lie.” I respond, “It's a lie, but it's a lie we need. Because otherwise he left nothing

behind. Now, he means something, and that's all he has. A little meaning.”

Because it's true: all Sergeant Basilone has left behind is a stretch of the 5 Freeway, a few bereft

family members, and an idea of heroism for the rest of us to study and consider. The way that the art

that Oscar Wilde created in life funnels into the ideas he leaves behind. That's all Oscar Wilde leaves:

ashes and ideas.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, ideas to ideas. It sounds better that way.

It's a big task I seem to be setting for myself: to live a life full of art and ideas so that when I

die, there'll be something of my own left in the world. Hopefully it will make it a better place—I would

rather be nothing than leave a feeling behind me like Hitler. I want my life to have been something
beautiful, and have had my life end with a gentle period—not an ugly life ending with a torn page.

Pancho Villa, the Mexican Revolutionary, probably felt that way when, on his death bed, he

pleaded, “Don't let it end like this—tell them I said something!” A life of heroism and beauty, and yet

the poor man ends it with a pleading, confused, childish cry.

I wish he could have seen the death bed of Karl Marx—the old man, lying in bed; the maid,

leaning in close. The maid asks, timidly, for some last words from the great man, knowing that the

press waiting outside would want some last quotation to plaster in the next day's newspapers. Marx,

feeble though he is, grabs the bedside lamp, and hurls it at her head.

“Go on, get out! Last words are for fools who haven't said enough in life!”

A man so assured of the beauty of his life that he does not see the need to embellish.

You can't steal another man's death scene. It isn't yours. It would be plagiarism.

My friend Garrett is laid out in an open casket on a slightly raised stage, the bright spot of the

black memorial home. A black podium with a small, unused microphone is just to the left of it, in front

of a wreath. I am sitting in the back row, watching the bereaved family in the front row crying and

looking to the podium for more words. Countless well-wishers have gone up and spoke—I gave a small

speech, as did most of my friends. The family, bless their hearts, let most of the speaking be done by

Garrett's friends rather than hoarding the time for themselves.

My friend Andrew gets up and walks over to the podium. He's dressed in a somewhat stuffy

dress shirt, but he has already unbuttoned it two buttons and rolled up his sleeves. He didn't shave for

the occasion—he'd made some comment to me beforehand about how Garrett wouldn't have wanted

him to shave. His worse pass by me, as I continue to try and comprehend why Garrett is gone. Why is

Garrett gone. What did this mean.

Something catches my attention and I listen again.

“And if I catch anyone moping over Garrett,” Andrew is saying, with a playfully mean look in
his eye, “All I can say is this: Haunt 'em good, Garrett—haunt 'em good!”

Laughter mingles with the tears in a wave through the small audience, partly from shock and

partly from appreciation. Everyone dies. Everyone's life is a piece of art. A death only becomes tragic

once we make it that way.

As I'm thinking those thoughts to myself, exiting the memorial home, I'm stopped by a ghost

from the past, an old friend from elementary school who I have been reunited with by the sad

circumstances.

“You're alive!” He says. “You're alive!” he insists again, poking me in the chest.

“Yes, dammit, I'm alive,” I reply shortly. “Why wouldn't I be?”

“They told me you were dead! I was really sad!”

“What? No, Garrett died—”

“No, I mean, when you moved away. They told me you died, and I spent a while being really

dead.”

The most positive dream of death I've ever had is to be like Mark Twain, and to wake up one

morning to read all the obituaries and find out what people thought of me, what I meant to people, and

what footprint I'm leaving behind.

 Works Cited

Camus, Albert. The Plague. New York: Vintage Books, 1991.

“dying words of famous people.” Brain Candy 1990. Corsinet.com. 19 August 2006.

Ishida, Tatsuya. “Sinfest: The Webcomic To End All Webcomics.” Sinfest. 2006. Tatsuya Ishida. 5

Oct. 2006. <http://www.sinfest.net/>

Kaufman, Moises. Gross Indecency: The Three Trials Of Oscar Wilde.New York:Vintage Books,1997.

Lewis, Jone Johnson. “Risk Quotes | Risk Quotations | Risk Sayings | Wisdom Quotes.” Wisdom

Quotes. 2006. WisdomQuotes.com. 5 Oct.2006.<http://www.wisdomquotes.com/cat_risk.html>

Moncur, Michael. “Quote Details: Woody Allen: 'I don't want to...'--Quotations Page.” Quotations

Page. 1994. Quotationspage.com. 5 Oct. 2006.<http://www.quotationspage.com/quote/52.html>

Nirvana. “Lithium.” Nevermind. Geffen, 1991.

Patterson, Michael Scott. “John Basilone, Gunnery Sergeant, United States Marine Corps.” Arlington

National Cemetery Website. 2000. Arlington National Cemetery Website. 26 March 2006.

<http://www.arlingtoncemetery.net/johnbasi.htm>