Death Be Not Proud: "Death always brings one suddenly face to face with life"

I just turned the last page in this book, and, friends, there are no GIFs for the particular kind of sads I have right now.

Just kidding . . . there are always GIFs.

John Gunther Jr. was 17 when he died of a malignant brain tumor. This book is the story of the 15 months that passed between his diagnosis and his death in 1947, as told by his father.

"Such a book could easily have become an understandable but embarrassing statement of grief, or a father's equally embarrassing eulogy. This one is neither. . . . Without fuss, in simple, almost conversational style, he expresses the love and comradeship he felt for his son, gives a step-by-step account of cancer's inexorable victory. In so doing, Gunther arouses in the reader an almost deliberate passion to help find the dark enemy and destroy it." (anonymous reviewer, Time magazine, 1949)

I couldn't have said it better myself, anonymous reviewer.

John Gunther was a seasoned journalist, and it shows in his ability to detach himself somewhat from the emotional aspects of his account. He's not cold or unfeeling as he writes; he's simply attempting to report events as they occurred. At points, the narrative does get a bit dry, usually when Gunther is explaining the ins and outs of the treatment methods they pursued throughout Johnny's illness, but every detail he provides is relevant to the objective: "to tell, however fumblingly and inadequately, . . . the story of a gallant fight for life, against the most hopeless odds" (p. 5).

And Johnny is someone I wish I could have known (although I would first need to forgive his disliking of George Eliot) . . . and I kind of feel that I DO know him.

The only picture of him on the WHOLE Internet.

He was a boy who discussed transmigration of souls with his parents on a typical drive home. (After much consideration, he decided he wanted to come back as a sperm whale.)

He was a boy who, 12 days after undergoing major brain surgery, demanded to write a letter to Albert Einstein regarding the dimensions of the universe. And Einstein replied.

He was a boy who made up 1 1/2 years of missed schoolwork (with half a brain!) and walked down the aisle—with a bandaged head and decreasing motor function on the left side of his body—to accept his diploma with the rest of his class.

He was a boy with a sense of humor.

"Miss Gerson's little girl, aged about six, was fascinated by Johnny, and often came in to see him. He was polite, but bored. Girls of six were really not his dish. Once the little girl tiptoed in and asked if it were all right to stay. Johnny replied, 'Okay, if you don't compromise me. Keep the door ajar.'" (p. 76)

He was a boy who cared about how his illness affected others.

"Johnny was frighteningly tired. He started to cough again at about five in the morning. Mrs. Seeley crept into his room, and he whispered to her, 'I'm afraid I'm being too much trouble.' She replied with a cheery 'Don't worry about me!' whereupon he considered for a moment and then said, 'Somebody's got to worry over you.'" (p. 75)

Quite frankly, it's a little hard to believe such a person as Johnny Gunther ever existed. But I'm perfectly willing to believe it, all the same.

Because of where *I* am in life, the angle of "Johnny as exceptional person under extraordinarily difficult circumstances" stands out for me the most. A parent would probably latch onto something entirely different. And someone coping with a serious illness or that of a loved one would likely relate on an even deeper level. My point is that the themes and topics are so universal, it's impossible NOT to identify in some way. And maybe that's why this book has never been out of print since its first publication in 1949.

A few excerpts from Johnny's journal . . . because I like to hear how HE tells it:

But first, some background from Johnny's mother: "It was only after his death, from his brief simple diaries, written as directly as he wrote out his beloved chemical experiments, that we learned he had known all along how grave was his illness, and that even as we had gaily pretended with him that all was well and he was completely recovering, he was pretending with us, and bearing our burden with the spirit, the élan, of a singing soldier or a laughing saint" (p. 189).

November 11th
Ask parents what you can do to make them happy.

November 12, 1946
Talk. Give. Work.
Here is a prayer I thought of last spring at Medical Center.
Live while you live, then die and be done with.

November 16th
Resolved to ask Father about divorce. [His parents divorced when Johnny was 14.]

November 17th
Got Father's and Mother's sides of divorce all straightened out. What wonderful parents.

November 22nd, 1946
Philosophy: "Get yourself off your Hands." Happiness is in Love. Accept disappointments. Relieve oneself by confession of sins. I am growing up at last.

January 1, 1947
Yesterday I cleared up the whole matter of the Jews with parents.

January 8th
Yesterday I discussed fears of death with Mother.
For years I have had a lack of confidence in myself, fears about ultimate reality.
Accept death with detachment.
Take more pleasure in life for its own sake.

January 16th
Recontent with the universe. Discontent with the world.

February 3rd
Sometimes I wish I was as cheerful to myself as to others---nonsense!!

Wednesday, Feb. 19, 1947, A.D.
A little amnesia today.
I think that I realize and accept the "goodness of life." I should not need to "hang on to" chemical brainstorms, self-abnegation, etc.

May
Back to Neurological Institute! A second operation. They shave off all my hair again! Damn it.
But I can eat again! Steak, ice cream! Cream of mushroom soup!
Oh! How good it is.

SOURCE: Gunther, John. (1949). Death Be Not Proud. New York: HarperCollins. (Title quote from p. 187.)

Revolutionary Road: Proving it's possible to hate every character and still love the book

Frank and April Wheeler first crossed paths at a party in New York City, when their hearts were young and running free.

Events directly preceding their first meeting.

April didn't have any particular direction in life, and neither did Frank. But they shared at least two things: debilitating baggage from the separate failings of their parents and the central goal of being more fabulous than anyone else in the history of ever.

Their romance was whirlwindy, and then they got married because it seemed like a fun activity for a weekday. But with one catalyzing event, their lives started getting less and less fabulous.

"Wasn't it true, then, that everything in his life from that point on had been a succession of things he hadn't really wanted to do? Taking a hopelessly dull job to prove he could be as responsible as any other family man, moving to an overpriced, genteel apartment to prove his mature belief in the fundamentals of orderliness and good health, having another child to prove that the first one hadn't been a mistake, buying a house in the country because that was the next logical step and he had to prove himself capable of taking it. Proving, proving; and for no other reason than that he was married to a woman who had somehow managed to put him forever on the defensive, who loved him when he was nice, who lived according to what she happened to feel like doing and who might at any time---this was the hell of it---who might at any time of day or night just happen to feel like leaving him. It was as ludicrous and as simple as that." (p. 53)

They never resigned themselves to the life they were living. They were constantly expecting to transcend circumstances they deemed unworthy of their self-conceptions, constantly at odds with each other and their home and work and friends and coworkers . . . and, most tragically, with their role as parents.

For the first 20 pages, I marginally identified with Frank and April. My husband and I are frolicking through a nontraditional life in a nontraditional neighborhood in a nontraditional city. At this point, neither of us would go quietly into an office job or the suburbs. But that's where the comparison ends, I hope . . . because I LOATHED these people. They are probably the most shamelessly selfish characters I've encountered in literature, and not just April and Frank; EVERY SINGLE character is competing to be the most self-involved, and they're ALL WINNING. And that's kind of the point. Well, it's ONE of the points. There are an astonishing number of points (without being preachy, I promise).

Now watch as I wantonly compare this book to other things: In terms of themes, I can trace major parallels to Blue Valentine, and at least a few to American Psycho. You'll have to figure out what those parallels are. Think of it as a very sad Easter-egg hunt. Find an egg; take an antidepressant.

Kitty self-medicates after learning the American Dream is a lie.

SOURCE: Yates, Richard. (1961). Revolutionary Road. New York: Vintage.

I Am Legend, or How Sexism Survived the Vampire Apocalypse

This is one of those many times when I wouldn't recommend seeing the movie before reading the book, because the movie was quite a lot better I thought. Although, they're not really comparable because they diverge drastically plot-wise. So let's not even compare them then. I take it all back.

Robert Neville is the last human left. He's pretty sure. During the day, he goes out for supplies, replaces the damaged planks over his windows, hangs fresh garlic around the outside of the house . . . and stakes his neighbors through the heart while they sleep.

A sickness has swept through the population, turning everyone, one by one, into vampires. So every evening, Neville locks himself inside his house, pours himself a whiskey and soda, and turns up the classical music to drown out the sounds of the bloodthirsty crowd assembling outside his door. 

I had to remind myself a couple of times that this story was written in 1954. Because . . . well, let me just share with you what I scribbled in my notebook after reading the first 20 pages.

"What I know so far about Robert Neville: He is a man. He can use tools. He doesn't like to clean. He is controlling his sexual urges with difficulty. He is a man."

I picture a slightly disheveled Jon Hamm. Oh . . . you want an actual picture? WELL I WON'T GIVE YOU ONE. (Just kidding.)

The last rakishly handsome chauvinist on earth.

But the book does get a little better, despite Neville's stereotypical macho-man characteristics and the general subjugation of women lady vampires. We get some back story on Neville. We find out that he's just an ordinary guy, not equipped with any special knowledge to make him particularly suited for surviving the near extinction of the human race. In fact, he's often infuriatingly dense.

"Something had killed the vampire; something brutally effective. The heart had not been touched, no garlic had been present, and yet . . .
It came, seemingly, without effort. Of course---the daylight!
A bolt of self-accusation struck him. To know for five months that they remained indoors by day and never once to make the connection! He closed his eyes, appalled by his own stupidity." (p. 38)

Nosferatu is also appalled by your stupidity.

Coping with isolation is the dominant theme for most of the story. And then it kind of morphs into a powerful commentary on "otherness" . . . and how the ruling majority can become the ruled minority practically overnight.

So what have we learned? Always read the book before the movie. And, yep, I think that's pretty much it.

Blindness, or the reason I gazed hungrily at a flower for 15 minutes

How to describe Blindness?

OK . . . let's try this: Imagine the zombie apocalypse, because of course you know what that looks like (and if you don't . . . you're clearly ill prepared, and I will NOT be sharing my weapons with you). Once you've formed that mental picture, just replace the zombies with disoriented blind people. And that's Blindness.

One day, a man is sitting in his car, staring at a stoplight and waiting for it to turn green. It's a day just like any other day, and this man is just like any other man (it could be YOU . . . but it couldn't be me because I'm not a man). That red light is the last thing he sees before his vision is swallowed by an opaque whiteness. This inexplicable "white blindness" travels from person to person, and government officials, ascertaining that they have an epidemic of blindness on their hands, quarantine all those affected. A closed mental asylum is chosen as the initial quarantine facility . . . and that is where most of the crazy happens in our story.

Saramago gracefully (and unapologetically) rips apart every aspect of our lives that we take for granted and exposes the ugliest and most beautiful actions of humans under crisis. Although the phenomenon of sudden blindness seems far removed from the world we know, Saramago expertly grounds his premise in reality, the reality of human nature and the workings of government . . . the way of the world in general. Also, the characters remain nameless. Saramago sets them apart using descriptors ("the girl with dark glasses," "the first blind man," "the boy with the squint," etc.), which makes their experiences universal. They are just placeholders . . . perhaps for us.

The writing style is a little exasperating. Here's the thing about Saramago: He doesn't use punctuation. Well, that's not true . . . he DOES use periods and he is CERTAINLY fond of commas. But that's it. Nary a question mark or quotation mark, and very few paragraph breaks. The result is incredibly disorienting, which works for this book but resulted in me rereading everything six times before I could figure out who was saying what and where this person's dialogue ended and this other person's began and WHERE IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT'S GOOD AND HOLY IS THE END OF THIS SENTENCE BECAUSE I HAVE TO FEED THE DOGS SOMETIME TODAY AND ALL I SEE ARE COMMAS.

That being said, this is what people call "an important book." And people are right about that. These problems, aside from the literal blindness, could be (and in many cases ARE) our problems. And there are some really gorgeous moments. I will leave you with my favorite one:

"You were never more beautiful, said the wife of the first blind man. Words like that, they deceive, they pile up, it seems they do not know where to go, and, suddenly, because of two or three or four that suddenly come out, simple in themselves, a personal pronoun, an adverb, a verb, an adjective, we have the excitement of seeing them coming irresistibly to the surface through the skin and the eyes and upsetting the composure of our feelings, sometimes the nerves that cannot bear it any longer, they put up with a great deal, they put up with everything, it was as if they were wearing armour, we might say. The doctor's wife has nerves of steel, and yet the doctor's wife is reduced to tears because of a personal pronoun, an adverb, a verb, an adjective, mere grammatical categories, mere labels, just like the two women, the others, indefinite pronouns, they too are crying, they embrace the woman of the whole sentence, three graces beneath the falling rain." (pp. 281–282)

And here's a picture of José Saramago reading to a sleepy doggy:

SOURCE: Saramago, José. (1997). Blindness (G. Pontiero, Trans.). Orlando, FL: Harcourt.

The Book Thief made me ugly cry

I confess, my biggest fear going into this book was that I wouldn't cry. It's worrisome being practically the last person to read something that has made everyone else weep. What if I'm the ONLY person in the world impervious to the trials of a little girl in Nazi Germany? WHAT IF I'M DEAD INSIDE?

I needn't have worried. I cried alright. In my front yard. In the middle of the afternoon. On Super Bowl Sunday. People walking by with boxes of beer and family-size chip bags were treated to the sight of a girl blubbering into the grass.

If you are one of the few who haven't read this one yet, it's about Liesel, a young girl trying to navigate the usual obstacles of youth and the added strain of growing up under Hitler's thundercloud. It's also about the power of words, for good and for evil. Our narrator is Death, which is perfect for a lot of reasons, not least of which that we get passages like this:

"It was a year for the ages, like 79, like 1346, to name just a few. Forget the scythe, Goddamn it, I needed a broom or a mop. And I needed a vacation. . . . They say that war is death's best friend, but I must offer you a different point of view on that one. To me, war is like the new boss who expects the impossible." (pp. 307, 309)

We've all grown up with the knowledge of WWII and the horrors contained therein. We know so much about it, in fact, that the horror has started to lose its sharp edges. It's good to remember that humans are capable of the worst atrocities, and this book does some reminding, but the real value of The Book Thief is in how it puts a human face on events in a way that doesn't seem engineered to make the reader ashamed to be human. Death is a fair narrator, and all sides are represented. And, anyway, the evil acts aren't what makes this book so heartbreaking . . . it's the kind ones.

Now here's an ending that makes me feel better.

SOURCE: Zusak, Markus. (2005). The Book Thief. New York: Alfred A. Knopf.

2012 To-Be-Read Pile Challenge (aka more fun with participation)

Hello, fellow readers trapped under a pile of unread books (picture a happier version of 127 Hours, with more reading and less arm amputation).

Yes. Precisely.

Adam over at Roof Beam Reader is hosting this challenge. His entreaty: Read 12 books from ye olde TBR pile in 12 months.

Continuing with my goal to set goals for myself, I hereby officially join the fray. These are the books against which I will do battle in the year 2012 (in no particular order):

1. Revolutionary Road by Richard Yates
2. Death Be Not Proud by John Gunther
3. My Antonia by Willa Cather
4. Dracula by Bram Stoker
5. The Devil in the White City by Erik Larson
6. The Memoirs of Elizabeth Frankenstein by Theodore Roszak
7. I Am Legend by Richard Matheson
8. Blindness by Jose Saramago
9. The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde
10. Adventures of Sherlock Holmes by Arthur Conan Doyle
11. The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton
12. The Book Thief by Markus Zusak

And here are my two alternates (insurance against potential unreadables lurking in the above list):

1. Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky
2. The Woodlanders by Thomas Hardy

Let the challenge begin (in about a month)!