The Road

I read some very good books over the summer. The one that I think about the most is The Road by Cormac McCarthy. It starts with a sentence that is almost poetry:

"When he woke in the woods in the dark and the cold of the night he'd reach out to touch the child sleeping beside him."

Civilization has ended and the man and his son are on the road, moving towards the coast. We never find out what ended civilization. There are no big-headed aliens attacking humans, or anything like that. We don't even know for sure why the man and the boy are walking towards the coast, except they need to keep on the move, and the coast is warmer than the mountains.

There are gangs of "bad people" who roam the earth, seeking out the weak to kill them and eat them. The man and boy need to stay away from the "bad people" while trying to survive, and trying to remain one of the "good people". The man's wife kills herself before the book starts. She couldn't stand the fear of what might happen.

The book asks some basic questions: If all of civilization was gone, what would you need to do to survive? And more importantly, what would you be willing to do to survive? Would you be willing to kill to survive? Would you be willing to prey on the weak and eat them? Would you remain one of the "good people" even if it cost you your life?

Can we defeat terrorism by turning into terrorists ourselves?


I am reminded of a poem by Stephen Crane:

A man feared that he might find an assassin;
Another that he might find a victim.
One was more wise than the other.

For Grady

Grady died this week. I think he was ready to go. He didn't want a funeral, didn't want a minister talking about him, so they will get together and celebrate his life. I can't be there, but I will be remembering him, too.

Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
A time to be born, and a time to die;
a time to plant,
and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
A time to kill, and a time to heal;
a time to break down, and a time to build up;
A time to weep, and a time to laugh;
a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together;
A time to seek, and a time to lose;
a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
A time to rend, and a time to sew;
a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
A time to love, and time to hate;
a time for war, and a time for peace.


As Befits a Man

I don’t mind dying—
But I’d hate to die all alone!
I want a dozen pretty women
To holler, cry, and moan.

I don’t mind dying
But I want my funeral to be fine:
A row of long tall mamas
Fainting, fanning and crying.

I want a fish-tail hearse
And sixteen fish-tail cars,
A big brass band
And a whole truck load of flowers.

When they let me down,
Down into the clay,
I want the women to holler:
Please don’t take him away!
Ow-ooo-oo-o!
Don’t take daddy away!

Langston Hughes


If I should go before the rest of you,
Break not a flower nor inscribe a stone.
Not when I’m gone speak in a Sunday voice,
But be the usual selves that I have known.
Weep if you must,
Parting is hell,
But life goes on,
So sing as well.

Joyce Grenfell

A Poem for Grady

I found this poem in the Washington Post Book World Poet's Corner on Sunday.

Grady is a Viet Nam Veteran and a drummer. He married my sister many years ago, worked hard, liked to hunt, road a motor bike and occasionally raised hell. Now he's in Hospice care.

Morphine

The man lying in bed is dying
from cancer, flecks of bone
flow like ice in his blood.

Outside it’s snowing,
lightly in the street, white petals
from a pear tree.

Everything is starting
to feel immense. His children,
like four pylons,

quietly resemble each other.
They pull at glasses
of Dewar’s. They can’t help

but notice the petals, the snow
blowing together in the street.
They chat politely, take salt

from his forehead,
on their lips, as they go
out the door, agreeing

he looks bad. They don’t know
the man’s floating on
a blue raft, an ocean, a small

Pacific. He’s smoking
a pleasant cigarette; it’s nice,
lukewarm, no undertow.

James Hoch