Speaking Well of the Dead

Have you ever noticed that when someone is reported on the news to have been killed due to accident or crime, they are always well spoken of? The reporter imposes on relatives, neighbors, coworkers, etc., hoping to wring a little more sensation/emotion out of the event. And regardless of the circumstances - even if the the person died during the commission of a horrific crime - those who knew him/her invariably give a charitable comment about the character of the deceased. "He was a good neighbor - always ready to lend a helping hand." "She was the most generous woman. She would do anything for you, whether she knew you or not." "He had really turned his life around and was going to do great things." "He was such a wonderful husband and father." No doubt such praise is often well deserved. But not always. It's either part of our human nature or subtly drilled into us from an early age the we mustn't speak ill of the dead. I guess that's only fair since the person cannot possibly defend himself against attack at that point. Still it is an interesting phenomenon.

In her novel Emma, Jane Austen made this wry observation: "A young person who either marries or dies is sure to be kindly spoken of." Borrowing a portion of one of her more famous lines, I opened my first novel (The Darcys of Pemberley) with a similar thought: "It is a truth universally acknowledged that even the most ignoble person on the face of the earth appears more praiseworthy after death." In the story, this proves true as the significant defects of the man's disposition (the recently deceased) are quickly forgotten and everyone remarks how fond they always were of the man they previously could not abide.

Come to think of it, this theme is echoed by the poem I shared earlier (see Feb. 8th entry). I suppose it is a comfort to know that, although our personal detractors may have few scruples about slandering us while we live, we have the ultimate hope of much better reviews in future.

Different Seasons

As kids, we entertain all kinds of dreams and ambitions about the things we will do and be when we grow up. The possibilities are limited only by our imaginations at that stage. I remember at one point (probably after watching the Winter Olympics) wanting to be an ice skater. At another time, I thought I might like to become a nun (never mind that I wasn't even Catholic), chiefly because of how they were portrayed in the movies. According to my observations, every nun was, without exception, beautiful, serenely happy, and could sing like an angel. What's not to like?

As you may have guessed, I changed my mind about entering the convent and my dreams of skating off with a gold medal were never realized. Somewhere along the way, I adjusted my sights to a more down-to-earth view of my future. I went to college, found a nice practical job, got married, and raised two children. This is the exhaustingly-hectic-yet-uniquely-rewarding stuff of real life for most of us. But I wondered, "What comes next?" My sons were nearly grown. Would I suffer some sort of empty-nest crisis when they left?

I found that, for me at least, there were compensations. Suddenly, I had time to rekindle some interests from the past, embarking on my own personal, small-scale renaissance. I started playing the piano again, began experimenting with different art mediums, and returned to my love of literature - all things left long neglected due to the demands of everyday life. My decision to read "the classics" led me to discover (somewhat belatedly) and promptly fall in love with the novels of Jane Austen. Her writing subsequently inspired me to take up the pen myself (okay, so I use a laptop computer instead). If I were already a famous, wildly successful author, I would say, "and the rest is history." But that chapter has not yet been written.

It seems every season has its different challenges and rewards. I'm grateful for the blessings of each and for what I've learned along the way. Hopefully, the best is yet to come.