It’s what made me a certain kind of Catholic, the kind who appreciates the Stations of the Cross and a gory German crucifix. I’ve always respected willingness to look death in the face, to admit its capricious leavening power. Playing at death right now seems like an insult. How gauche, how tasteless, the skeletons, the skulls, the white sheets with black eyes hung from the porches, snapping in the wet wind. How silly we are to make this annual game of death each fall. Her brother will be John Wick, noir hero, Fortnite skin. She’s wearing a pointed gnome’s hat and heavy cloak like Wirt from Over the Garden Wall, a whimsical animated story of children lost in a Dante-esque dark wood. I return to sewing the last button on my daughter’s Halloween costume. I see the faces of the eleven people murdered in their synagogue in Pittsburgh. Facebook: Soldiers deployed to greet those fleeing from pain with yet more pain.
Twitter: a plane has crashed in Indonesia.
Remember that you will die full#
I sit in the dim light of our gas stove with my laptop, check social media, find it full of horrors and portents. The house shudders briefly, exhales with the departure of the loud chatter of three eight-year-olds boys. Brakes squeal, the doors gasp open to swallow my son and his friends at the bus stop, which is also our front porch. The school-bus lights swing onto our street. The maple outside my window is yellowing, shedding. You might as well live on the whites of eggs.” ― Muriel Spark, Memento Mori “Without an ever-present sense of death life is insipid. This week we are delighted to welcome Jessica Mesman as Good Letters’ new editor.
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