Some Appealing Notions

Notion #1
The other day, I was telling my friend gleefully what a wonderful speech I’d give at his funeral. “I can’t wait for you to die,” I said “so I can really put on a show.” I had amused myself thinking of the conventions of funeral-speeches. The eulogist, regardless of how his or her relationship to the deceased was, must behave as if he’s speaking for all the bereaved. I.E. “We all know how much Sandy loved anything crocheted!” or “Bill never could turn down an opportunity to gamble.” The speechmaker must make a gesture like this for two reasons: First, to build a makeshift community of the mourners through a shared understanding. Secondly, the speech-maker is trying to show that the dead had a coherent self that everyone remembered in a similar way. Though the mourners may feel that they knew parts of Bill and Sandy beyond the crocheting and gambling, they can still be reassured that they’re grieving a person potent and complete enough to affect everyone’s memories--at least partially--the same way. At least a part of the dead was universally recognized by his or her loved ones. The eulogist’s task is to decide what part this was, and offer it up as proof that the dead was finite enough to create a shared experience in all the mourners.

Of course, sometimes the dead had such a major weakness or addiction that the speechmaker much acknowledge this to show that we, even in the magic presence of death, have no illusions. If Bill’s gambling was compulsive, the speechmaker might ruefully mention his “final gamble” (whatever it might be--a gamble with disease, with a bad driving choice whatever) as a way of nodding to his problem. This isn’t to insult or chastise the dead, but to give license for the rhapsodizing to come. Idealizing the dead seems all the more legitimate when prefaced with a mention of a flaw. What amuses me about all this is the thought of someone giving a eulogy that was completely obscure, yet delivered in this tone of “we all know this.” For example, imagine this short speech given with the confidence of someone who was sure you were on the same page:

“Elliot wasn’t an ethical man. He wasn’t a reasonable man. He wasn’t a guy you could clap on the should and say “how’s it going?” He didn’t invite familiarity. He didn’t invite flattery. He certainly didn’t invite love or even fond feelings. Elliot was, however, memorable. Memorable, that is, in the way of a fogbank. What we remember about Elliot, what we cherish about him most, is not his virtues but his ability to make the obvious seem obscure. We don’t remember fog because of what it looks like, but because of what it does to what we see. Likewise, we remember Elliot because of how remote he made the world to us, how his bafflement and personal chaos could take the edges off of everything. He really did give the finite a beating, huh?!”

Whoever this “Elliot” was, its hard to imagine that this depiction could be shared among the mourners. Two things interest me about the whole notion of a misguided eulogist, wrongly thinking he’s hit upon the general feeling about the dead. First, it subverts the goal of drawing up a firm image of the just-deceased. Nothing is worse than a diffuse impression of a dead person. If we can’t have their corporal substance, we damn well better have a substantial--and most importantly standard--description of them. We don’t need the ghostliness of ambiguity or the intangibility of nuance at a time like this. The other thing that interests me is the idea of a speaker feeling so casually assured that everyone agreed with, or even just apprehended, his unchecked subjectivity. But, as I’ve both seen and exploited, a tone of “I know you know where I’m coming from” can actually be more persuasive than actually coming from a sensible place. Very likely, a few of Elliot’s loved ones might start to recall his charming quality of loosening everything nailed down in the world. It is one of the memories we all share, though maybe just a bit curiously put.


Notion #2
My way of dealing with criticisms or accusations is this: I confess to each one, then explain why my attacker is actually noting a universal human quality, rather than something peculiar to me. “Yes, I’m manipulative. But who can avoid it? The argument could be made that all language is manipulative because it never conforms exactly to what we mean. Therefore, we have to strategize--”choose the right words” as they say--to have the intended effect. Our expressions are unavoidably deferred from our intentions, so everything we say and do must involve a large measure of plotting to deliver our real wishes. Frankness and openness are just a style of expression--still just as remote from the person’s real thoughts and feelings. ‘Frankness’ is just a more sanctioned mode of manipulation.” Or “Of course I’m hypocritical. What you see in me is nothing more than a microcosm of the failure of all human striving. We never are what we claim to be. Everything used to describe humanity: civilized, intelligent, progressing--can be easily countered by an example from history or the present. Come on. You know that.”

I often wait eagerly to be accused so I can challenge myself to get from the personal criticism to Universal Truth in the smallest time possible. Sadly, it seems that people have picked up on my enjoyment of this game and don’t criticize much at all. Now they’ve just resorted to “silent contempt. ” But when I accuse them of that, they insist upon denying it. Why don’t they just admit the truth, that they of course look upon me with silent contempt because how else can you look at your fellow man? Why don’t they just explain that human kind has always been a little self-loathing, so there must always be a little contempt in how we look upon each other?

Anyway, even though I use this “admit everything” strategy to deal with accusations, I don’t much like it when someone else does it. Once, I was making a criticism of a friend and he kept fessing up to everything I was saying even before I got to luxuriate in every in and out of my criticism. Frustrated, I blurted out: “You’re like a man being tried for murder who just keeps repeating ‘I never said I wasn’t a murderer. What’s all the fuss about?’ The thing is, just because you never said you weren’t a murderer doesn’t make it any less of a crime or any less heinous! Its not a defense! The point of the trial is not to determine whether or not you’re a hypocrite, but to decide if you committed a crime!”

As often happens, I became so delighted by my hypothetical situation that I abandoned the point I was trying to make to linger within it. There’s something really funny to me about somebody on the stand in a murder trial throwing up his hands and saying “I never said I wasn’t a murderer!” as if the whole point of the trial is just to give him that label. I can see this person so clearly…a ruddy, impatient type of guy, the type of guy that hates forms and officialdom and unnecessarily drawn-out doings…and when he utters his famous line, he says it in a way that makes law and justice and human reason and all that seem like pointless rigmarole. Why have all these people in this specially configured room, with these podiums and risers and things, why have all these labels: jurors, defense, prosecution, lawyer, why have all these funny symbols, this judges robe, this gavel, this sculpture of a blind chick with her balanced scales, why have all these official statements like “all rise” and “please approach the stand, counselor”, why have all this just to say I’m a murderer? I never said I wasn’t, goddamnit!