I read a book this morning that had me welling up with some tears, not only emotionally struck but also hypnotized, burning through the last ninety pages in just under the forty-odd minutes of Beethoven's Ninth. Which paired up with the book terribly well. Which might be part of the reason it kicked me in the gut so hard.
It might be because I haven't read a book in a while that had a suicide attempt as such a central event, and because I've never read a book that dealt with the trauma of suicide by employing such a powerful narrative shift, which essentially forced brutal, earnest empathy with absolutely everyone involved and to share every moment of their quaint devastation. And thusly to reconsider all romantic ideas about suicide. Until, unhopefully, I read another piece of well-made existentialism and reconsider all romantic ideas about life and living.
The book, and some reflection on it, led to more thought about suicide. Suicide both active and passive. I'm sure such a split isn't a new idea, but anyways I was led to think about it. Active suicide being the conventional methods - off the bridge, through the noose, in the brain. Each one deliberate, with a specific, personally directed means to an end, with complete control (more or less) of the time, setting, context, so on. Passive suicide could be called the doctrine of Christ Scientists, the excess of alcoholics, or the general mayhem of thrill-seekers. Anything between gross negligence and absolute recklessness. I suppose any mindset that raises the value of a single experience above the value of all earthly experiences to follow could be called suicidal.
The context for this continued line of thought was my illness (see previous whining) and how it might be this new-fangled swine flu or anything else under the sun potentially life-threatening. If I refused to seek treatment for whatever ailment, would I be suicidal? Considering, of course, entirely secular motivations, beyond mild Ludditism. It's improbable that my sore throat, ashy brain and now runny nose will threaten my life, but the book this morning and the reflection afterward has me presently curious as to what I might really do if a sickness were to call my end near. Maybe life-seekers can be split into active and passive categories, in which case I imagine terminal illness would inspire me gently toward the latter. I can hope.
