On the Inadequacy of Headstones

It was on one of my frequent perambulations through obscure Nottingham churchyards that I noticed that almost every grave's headstone bore the inscription "In Loving Memory".

Why did everyone creating these stones think it would be a good idea to copy the inscription of virtually every other inhabitant? It's not original, it shows poor and defective thought and a lack of the true sentimentality that one would hope one's surviving relatives and friends would feel towards one post-mortem.

Personally, I can't imagine the manufacturers of headstones being responsible. After all, they've got to do a lot of carving whether or not people want to alter the standard sentence fragment. Besides, ultimate responsibility lies with those preparing the dead person's funeral.

Even if a lazy and unscrupulous funeral director did say to you, "Sorry, mate. 'In Loving Memory' or 'Gone, but not forgotten' are your only options', would you accept that? No, not if you have any regard for the recently-deceased. Instead, you launch into a semi-incomprehensible splenetic tirade, pointing out that "of course I love them (or at least want to give that impression to the other relatives and future pompous history graduates who may walk past his grave), and of course they're not forgotten. What brand of facile asininity is this, you incompetent fool?"

You may as well just write "This man/woman was alive and now they're dead. They left behind some sad people. We had some good times." At least it's more expansive. And at least it's original. There are no benefits to the standard formula. It lacks poetry and warmth.

Now, you might argue that the space for originality is underneath the "In Loving Memory". That's where you write your sentimental drivel - "The Pain of Your Passing is Eclipsed by the Warmth of the Memories You Have Given Us" - or whatever. That's where you truly demonstrate the depth of your feelings to the deceased.

No, this isn't good enough. The headstone is all that is there in the cemetery to commemorate the dead. It should be a unique testament given to celebrate a unique life. It could be blank apart from a poem (not a poem, obviously. See below) and a name, or have playful carved-doodles of phalluses, if that is part of a relevant and affectionate tribute to the person decomposing beneath. You can tailor it as much as you like, and you shouldn't be constrained by what everyone else has written first. The Loving Memory in whose name you compose your headstone can be presumed.

P.S. The one "In Loving Memory" I could bear to sanction would be:

Mark Twain: The Ugly Years

I've written before about the delights of Mark Twain in his latter, misanthropic years. But now I've been studying him in a little more detail, reading a rather good biography by Ron Powers - Mark Twain: A Life. Unfortunately, as with all of one's heroes, studying Twain reveals his ugly side, his human flaws and weaknesses, which shatter the illusion that I've had of him as a faultless machine of pure satirical incision.

For example, in his early 30s, Twain became engaged to his first wife, Olivia Langdon. And he fell in love in the most clichéd and humiliating way that anyone can fall in love, complete with the worst and most offensive love-letters ever crafted, their appalling nature magnified when contrasted with his otherwise sterling verbal and written performances at the time.

Here are a few excerpts:

"Livy, Livy, Livy darling, it is such a happiness, such a pleasure, such a luxury, to write you, that I don't know when to stop."

"P.S. -- I do LOVE you, Livy!
~
P.P.P.S. -- I do love, LOVE, LOVE you, Livy, darling.
~
P.P.P.P.P.S. -- I do love you, Livy!"

"You are so pure, so great, so good, so beautiful. How can I help loving you? ... [H]ow can I keep from worshipping you, you dear little paragon?"

"I send a thousand kisses -- pray send me some."

And so on, and so forth.

Now, I value historical accuracy as much as the next graduate, but I can't help but think that Powers has done Twain a great disservice by faithfully reproducing these inane scribbles. In a new edition, perhaps he would consider striking out all references to love and replacing them with filth and bile. Mark "the truth is the most valuable thing we have, so I try to conserve it" Twain would, I'm sure, approve.

Right now, I eagerly anticipate the time, in a few years, when multiple members of his family will start perishing so that he might unlock the genius of his latter years. No one writes their best work when they're happy and complacent.

Loners

According to the BBC, there is a distinction between being lonely and being a loner. The basic difference is:

A loner gets satisfaction from being alone, someone who is lonely doesn't

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/magazine/8703173.stm

Which seems simple enough, except for the fact that everyone loves to be alone at some point, unless they're some sort of deranged, psychotic leech who lives off the constant attention of their social betters. And, if that is the sort of person they are, then "their social betters" probably encompasses everyone.

Anyway, regardless of the adequacies of the BBC's magazine section - which after all, is written by a hungover intern to fill the space at the bottom of article templates - the point I'm going to make is that loners have it right, because, statistically, you will not meet anyone who is worth letting down your façades and defences for, and becoming emotionally intimate with. And besides, if you do (I'm still speaking statistically here), they'll already be tied down to a fat, useless stoner. If they're a friend, they'll let you down again and again (and vice-versa, of course). Even if you do find that special someone, statistically (still) you'll end up splitting up with them or divorcing them, or losing them in a bizarre gardening accident. As any economically-minded intellect will tell you, the potential benefits are minimal, and are in no way outweighed by the almost-certain humiliations, miseries and disappointments.

The problem is that humans are idiots, so we still live with that inane, air-headed sense of wonder which makes us crave the miseries of the future even as we recover from the previous endurances. My advice to the "lonely" is to accept the logic of a life independent of the capricious frivolities of human contact and act as though their entire pathetic life was the result of an intricate and successful plan.

Gustave Flaubert

Madame Bovary on love:

'She did not speak; he was silent, captivated by her silence, as he would have been by her speech... To him she stood outside those fleshly attributes from which he had nothing to obtain, and in his heart she went on soaring and became farther removed from him after the magnificent manner of an apotheosis this taking wing. It was one of those pure feelings that do not interfere with life, that are cultivated because they are rare, and whose loss would afflict more than their possession rejoices.'