0.21 > 3.3
Need I say more?
(Originally published in Mars’ Hill on February 6, 2008)
On January 22, 2008, Heath Ledger died. And for some reason, I care.
It affects me. It goes beyond the simple tragedy of a young life ending suddenly. I read or hear about the death of some young father, or a loving woman, or an innocent child regularly – in fact, they’re hard to miss. I myself have even lost a number of friends to unspeakable ends. But for some reason, perhaps because of the sheer commonness, I forget to render proper reverence to those equally important lives.
And so I wonder why I can’t stop thinking about the death of a man I didn’t even know, a mere artist.
A few months ago, the election results in Kenya unleashed horror. To this day, it continues to inflict chaos and irreversible damage to thousands of people. People I know, people I met, people I care about are in suffering.
Did you know that about Kenya? I did; I do. I have since it began. I read the Kenyan stories between quotes of the year, designing a poster, and spoonfuls of ice cream.
Stalin infamously said, “A single death is a tragedy, a million deaths is a statistic.” I know its true. But I feel guilty. I care more, or at least seem to care more, about one actor than all the dying humans in Kenya. More about a man who lived in luxury than all those who suffer where atrocities go unpublished and unpunished. Why has one man’s death, one celebrity’s death, caused me (and the entire Western media machine) to stop and think of him?
Because I care about the lives of artists whose only offering to humanity is some creation. We all do, for reasons ethereal.
There is a certain emotional bond that is forged in art that I often forget after the moment is gone. Heath Ledger’s death affected me because I shared something with him – something many people shared with him – something we usually share with only a few people in our lives.
With the actor, it is that moment, that energy which screams some universal emotion to us. And then that knowing look, though in character, which says, “I know you’ve felt this too.”
A person with whom you share a deep emotional connection, be it positive or negative, never quite leaves you. You are never quite separated, despite the distance or apathy or busyness between. When some pivotal moment comes, that bond awakens within you. (It isn’t limited to human beings, either. When I was alone on the streets of Seattle, Hansel and Gretel were with me.)
Perhaps I’ve painted this with all too swift a brushstroke.
There is a genuine human tragedy in the death of Heath Ledger, and thus the complexity is compounded. He was not the implosion of celebrity, as some young starlets (who remain nameless) may soon be. Nor was he the fallout of excess and despair, as many a comedian has proven to be.
Lingering questions of drug use remain. Indeed, Ledger was not perfect by any stretch of the imagination. But the tragedy lies in society’s loss of an artist and that a little girl will grow up without her father, not the iniquity we all share.
I’m still not entirely comfortable with this conclusion though. I don’t think I ever will be. So I fold my hands and close my eyes and ask for guidance.
Last fall, I took an author study course on C.S. Lewis. For one assignment, a creative response in Lewis’ authorial voice, I offered a fictional “deleted scene” from his novella, The Great Divorce. Since there isn’t a market for such writing and a great many people enjoyed it, I post it here for your pleasure. It takes place in the latter third of the book.
If you plan to steal my words, remember that I own the copyright.
:::
The Great Divorce, Deleted Scenes: “Let’s Form A Clique”
Next there came what I thought to be a very fat ghost. As it moved closer, I realized it to be not one, but many connected spirits moving as a hideous Phalanx. I shall never forget the horrible eyes that hung from the sockets of the Phalanx, affixed in self-examination. It was moving towards the bright spirit of a man, who was standing quiet on the river’s edge. The Bright Spirit, the only thing that it seemed to see outside itself, turned to the Phalanx with a look of recognition. But it was difficult to tell what the content of their encounter was, for despite the closeness of proximity I could hear no sound.
“What is happening?” I asked my Teacher.
“They’re talking with each other. Perhaps ‘confronting’ is more apt.”
“What are they saying to one another? Why can I not hear them?”
“Their conversation is not for us to hear. They’re friends, the best and most arrogant of any I’ve seen – they’re completely silent to us. It isn’t possible for them to speak with us or us with them.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ye have seen it like this down on earth. Friends may bring out the best in each other, but a friendship untouched by divine love becomes that awful creature. These ones have rejected all but their inner circle; they thought their voices to be the only ones worth listening to. To be a little deaf is good; it keeps one focused. But to go entirely deaf to the outside world brings no sweet music to Heaven’s ears. Here, it’s their loss. They can’t hear Heaven’s songs and we can’t hear their murmurs.”
“Might we ever hear them?”
“It’s not a conversation we’re welcome to hear until they become solid. If they slip back into Hell, they’ll continue in ignorance and separate like the others. The only chance they have is that Bright Spirit, for he was one of them. He’s the only one other than God who can hear their cries here.”
After a short time the Bright Spirit turned away. The Phalanx began moving about as if it was shouting at its peak yet still not so much as a whisper came out. It stretched its form and contorted its face, moving pallid yellow veins across black flesh. One might have found it terrifying elsewhere, but here it looked more like a paper sheet on a clothesline than a real ghost’s linens.
From the outside the whole affair was as comical as a game of charades, but one in which the silent partner’s cues were steeped in dread solemnities.
They moved on to a new cue now, and the Phalanx swept up its shape, trying to play king upon the Bright Spirit. Unshaken, the Bright Spirit merely pointed a finger towards the chest of the specter. It fell back upon itself at this motion, much like a philosopher does when presented with a puzzle. The Bright Spirit seized the attention of the Phalanx and somehow convinced those horrible hanging eyes to gaze upon the sky and the trees and the river. The look in those eyes was as though they had never seen the world before.
A terrible shriek echoed in the hills. The Phalanx was withering away, vanishing almost entirely before imploding into bits of dust. Some pale white air fell upon the taller grass and left a residue that slid into the cracks of earth. For a moment there was silence in the thickets beyond.
I opened my mouth to ask my Teacher the meaning of these events, but suddenly, like a steam engine’s plume, the Phalanx burst forth from the space between the green blades. No longer black and yellow, the spirits were dancing, pure golden white lights. They shone brilliant bright. It was as if all the stars of Heaven had arrived: just as small, just as free. The Bright Spirit that conversed with them earlier now joined in their dance. Bouncing back and forth, all were shining more brightly every time they ran through each other. The music of a small choir, a handful of male voices singing the Doxology, rang with clarity. The spirits flew off into the distance, the way a flurry of shooting stars might if you could see them close up.
My Teacher and I walked along the river in silence, following the trail of sparkling gold that was left upon the dew.
