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Funerals and Books
Mar. 25th, 2005 05:40 pmNow that I've finished my puzzle (or, er, puzzles) it's time to get down to business! Here goes nothing...
"Hi. For those of you don't know me, I'm Will Sebastian. They, uh, tell me that I'm the next of kin, which is why I'm standing up here instead of some other poor schmuck. When they first approached me about writing a eulogy today, I very nearly said no. I mean, well, I hardly even knew my great uncle. I don't think I've heard a single thing about him since my grandfather died, which, as many of you remember, was quite some time ago. So what should I say? What does a person say, when talking about someone they don't really know very well? My great uncle, always Uncle Stan to me, was always a quiet man. He didn't make friends easily, at least as far as I could tell. But, I, uh, guess I really wouldn't know. There certainly seem to be enough faces out there. More evidence that I'm ill suited to write this, I suppose, but there we are. To say that he was distant might give the wrong impression, for he was always kind to me. Indeed, considering that I haven't seen him more than 5 or 6 times in my life, he had a surprisingly profound effect on me. He had a way of thinking about things, of carrying himself, that went beyond the few words that he spoke. In fact, thinking about it now, I'm sure that that magnetism that I remember is the explanation for the turnout today. I wonder if it would have surprised him to know that his quiet life caused ripples through the lives of those around him. I really didn't know him well enough to say, though the longer I stand here, the more I say, the more I wish that I had gotten to know him better. If nothing else, it would have prevented me from making a fool of myself in front of this congregation, but it's more than that. I guess, ultimately, Stan is the person that I wish I could be, of not needing to lean on words in order to convey his personality, a person you always notice, but not too much...well, I guess I should put my money where my mouth is. This speech is done. For Stan's sake, lets all try to have a good day."
I just couldn't take it any more. School was all well and nice, grades and all that crap, but if I had to read another page of this good-for-nothing, poorly written, dull, boring, slow-paced, poorly written (!!) and thoroughly terrible, pathetic piece of garbage, I was going to loose my mind. I mean, what was my teacher thinking? It's all well and nice to say "it's a classic" or "it's in the state syllabus" or even "I can't help the fact that they are going to test you on this," but as far as I could tell this book was none of these things. It wasn't obligatory, it wasn't mandatory, and it certainly wasn't state mandated. So why? Why were we reading it? I just wish I could understand. Lacking that option, though, instead I just keep telling myself, one more page...one more page. Then, all at once, I found the answer. I guess reading the whole book was its own reward, for there, on the very last page, the back cover even, was the answer to the question. The name of the author, Johnson Blaitt, hadn't meant anything to me, I'd never heard it before. But the picture about the author's biography on the last page...well, that was my teacher, even though his name was definitely not Johnson Blaitt. I considered why he hadn't said anything. Maybe he didn't want us to realize that this piece of garbage was written by him. He must not have noticed that his picture was in the book, if that was the case. On the other hand, presumable he wouldn't have thought of something he wrote as trash. So what then? I thought about it. A book I've never heard of, by an author I'd never heard of, and it started to come to me. Maybe he just wanted someone to care, maybe he just wanted someone to read his book, he was a person too, not just a teacher. I shrugged. It didn't change the fact that the book was trash. I wonder if anyone in my class will like it.
The podium stood silently at the head of the room, a podium placed on a dias that placed it well above the lines of pews that filled the rest of the church. It was late at night, nobody there to listen to the worship, everything silent but for the cars passing on the street outsider. In the morning, a man would stand before the podium and read from the book that rested there, read for all who would listen to hear. In the morning, the night-blackened walls would be hung with dark drapes to keep out the light. Until then, though, the book sat unopened, thick and heavy on the podium that placed it on high above the rows of benches. Until then, the walls uncovered, limestone lustrously gray even in the darkness, gathering what little light came through the stained glass. And after the morning was over, the book will sit unchanged, the walls will retain their pearly hue, and the people will have come and gone.
"Hi. For those of you don't know me, I'm Will Sebastian. They, uh, tell me that I'm the next of kin, which is why I'm standing up here instead of some other poor schmuck. When they first approached me about writing a eulogy today, I very nearly said no. I mean, well, I hardly even knew my great uncle. I don't think I've heard a single thing about him since my grandfather died, which, as many of you remember, was quite some time ago. So what should I say? What does a person say, when talking about someone they don't really know very well? My great uncle, always Uncle Stan to me, was always a quiet man. He didn't make friends easily, at least as far as I could tell. But, I, uh, guess I really wouldn't know. There certainly seem to be enough faces out there. More evidence that I'm ill suited to write this, I suppose, but there we are. To say that he was distant might give the wrong impression, for he was always kind to me. Indeed, considering that I haven't seen him more than 5 or 6 times in my life, he had a surprisingly profound effect on me. He had a way of thinking about things, of carrying himself, that went beyond the few words that he spoke. In fact, thinking about it now, I'm sure that that magnetism that I remember is the explanation for the turnout today. I wonder if it would have surprised him to know that his quiet life caused ripples through the lives of those around him. I really didn't know him well enough to say, though the longer I stand here, the more I say, the more I wish that I had gotten to know him better. If nothing else, it would have prevented me from making a fool of myself in front of this congregation, but it's more than that. I guess, ultimately, Stan is the person that I wish I could be, of not needing to lean on words in order to convey his personality, a person you always notice, but not too much...well, I guess I should put my money where my mouth is. This speech is done. For Stan's sake, lets all try to have a good day."
I just couldn't take it any more. School was all well and nice, grades and all that crap, but if I had to read another page of this good-for-nothing, poorly written, dull, boring, slow-paced, poorly written (!!) and thoroughly terrible, pathetic piece of garbage, I was going to loose my mind. I mean, what was my teacher thinking? It's all well and nice to say "it's a classic" or "it's in the state syllabus" or even "I can't help the fact that they are going to test you on this," but as far as I could tell this book was none of these things. It wasn't obligatory, it wasn't mandatory, and it certainly wasn't state mandated. So why? Why were we reading it? I just wish I could understand. Lacking that option, though, instead I just keep telling myself, one more page...one more page. Then, all at once, I found the answer. I guess reading the whole book was its own reward, for there, on the very last page, the back cover even, was the answer to the question. The name of the author, Johnson Blaitt, hadn't meant anything to me, I'd never heard it before. But the picture about the author's biography on the last page...well, that was my teacher, even though his name was definitely not Johnson Blaitt. I considered why he hadn't said anything. Maybe he didn't want us to realize that this piece of garbage was written by him. He must not have noticed that his picture was in the book, if that was the case. On the other hand, presumable he wouldn't have thought of something he wrote as trash. So what then? I thought about it. A book I've never heard of, by an author I'd never heard of, and it started to come to me. Maybe he just wanted someone to care, maybe he just wanted someone to read his book, he was a person too, not just a teacher. I shrugged. It didn't change the fact that the book was trash. I wonder if anyone in my class will like it.
The podium stood silently at the head of the room, a podium placed on a dias that placed it well above the lines of pews that filled the rest of the church. It was late at night, nobody there to listen to the worship, everything silent but for the cars passing on the street outsider. In the morning, a man would stand before the podium and read from the book that rested there, read for all who would listen to hear. In the morning, the night-blackened walls would be hung with dark drapes to keep out the light. Until then, though, the book sat unopened, thick and heavy on the podium that placed it on high above the rows of benches. Until then, the walls uncovered, limestone lustrously gray even in the darkness, gathering what little light came through the stained glass. And after the morning was over, the book will sit unchanged, the walls will retain their pearly hue, and the people will have come and gone.
