Scattered Remarks Deploring Lots of Stuff

“Strange to say,” my wife remarked one day, “when one is young, one imagines one might live forever, and yet one never imagines becoming old.” The words “and yet” are part of her original formulation, and yet it does seem to me that the two errors may really go hand in hand. I know when I was in my teens, longer ago than is the case for a typical reader of this column, I was pretty sure it was impossible for me to live long enough to witness the arrival of the year 2000, so maybe I didn't really think I'd live forever. The fact that I find it hard to imagine being dead doesn't mean I have that illusion today, either, though I should probably distinguish between what I “know” and what I “feel.” Knowing is widely supposed to be accomplished by the mind and feeling by the heart. Balderdash, but given the present unpopularity of mental activity by most people worldwide, maybe it's only feelings that should count, in which case, yeah, I'll undoubtedly live forever: it's how I feel .

Now, about not being able to imagine becoming old—I must admit that the idea of aging never entered my head as a child, nor as a teen-ager, nor even beyond that, except, perhaps, in the irrelevant sense of sometimes wanting the privileges associated with maturity. But maturity isn't the same thing as age, and I had no conception of indulging in the latter until some of the symptoms began to show up. I don't think this is a good venue for describing those, however. In words stolen from J. Alfred Prufrock (via T. S. Eliot), “Oh, do not ask ‘what is it?' Let us go and make our visit.” Only, despite the general opinion that Eliot, still in the prime of youth when he wrote that, was describing age, I shall paraphrase and claim that “that is not it at all; that is not what he meant at all.” It seems to me that Eliot really had no conception of aging, and may not even have thought he did. (Readers unfamiliar with “The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock” needn't blush: I haven't read much of the stuff you like to quote, either, so it's only fair. Oh, and like you, I'm citing from memory instead of looking it up.)

The popularity of mystery fiction has nothing whatever to do with aging but a great deal to do with the illusion that we will live forever. There are people all over the world who figure death is just around the corner anyway because drunks, terrorists, loathsome diseases, imaginary enemies, natural catastrophes and other such stuff have been killing their neighbors right and left. Not many of them read mystery fiction. Those of us in more fortunate circumstances are far more likely to do so. Because, even though we want, or even hope, to live forever, we fear and are fascinated by death. Not “natural death,” however, to which we quietly believe we are immune, but murder, which could artificially interfere with our illusion of immortality. At times in the history of mystery fiction it was sufficient that it describe the perils associated with other crimes difficult to endure, such as jewel robbery or embezzlement, but the need for fiction to go ever onward to greater and greater shocks has largely left all that behind, and now only needless killing satisfies the people who publish the books—people who are certain they know what we all care about. And mere murder, today, is not usually enough. Horrible murder is more the style now. Serial killers, for example. Brutal ones. Child killers, too, came into fashion quite a while ago, and have simply stayed fashionable. (Admittedly there are limits. A story centered on the killing of a dog is still too terrifying for the average citizen's taste. Take my advice and don't bother writing one like that: the market is zero.)

And now, having gone far afield from the initial premises, let us proceed to a more subtle matter: is it okay for the murderer to get away with his crime, or must he always be caught. (He or she, that is: I don't want to appear sexist.) Some people claim mystery fiction is “comforting” because the smart detective always sees to it that the killer gets his (or her) just desserts, and all ends up right with the world. Well, maybe not always comforting in the strict sense, since whether it's all right for the killer to get away with it seems, at present, to depend on the length of the fiction. Here's my own amateurish view: from 1000 to 1500 words, the criminal should be caught, though “about to be caught” will do in these shortest short stories. From there up to 7500 words more or less, he (or she) should get away with the crime, in order for the story to appeal to national editors. And at novel length, it is rarely acceptable for the criminal not to be caught unless he's one of those darling villains we want to see more of. How's that for an arbitrary dictum?

But, must the crime always be gory murder? Well, if is I won't read it; but you want to compete with television, don't you?

But speaking of TV (digitalized recently, for whatever that's worth if anything) it's time, now, for the commercial, so our ramble is over for the day, and Prufrock's admirers can resume seeing the evening sky as like an etherized patient. Go ahead.