Jan 142016
  January 14, 2016

So Alan Rickman has died. I loved him in Die Hard (didn’t everyone), and in many other films. I saw him first in 1978’s BBC production of Romeo and Juliette. It is still my favorite recorded version (beaten only a stage version I saw around 10 years ago).

And David Bowie died the other day. A mover and shaker in the music world, he changed things in so many ways. When I was in junior high, it was deeply uncool to like Bowie. The few who did so openly were not teased for it, but avoided; people were afraid of them. I didn’t know Bowie’s music very well, but as a controversial child, I was friendly with one of the girls who frightened others, and she introduced me to Ziggy. Not too many years later Bowie was in white jackets and the ultimate in cool, but I never liked his “later” work. But I did listen to Ziggy and the Spiders.

And everyone is crying about the deaths, or singing the two men’s praises. I’ve mixed feelings on it. I cannot get upset at death now. Eugie beat them to it, and did it much earlier, so everyone else is now just copying, and doing so often after a good deal more life.

I see laments that it (each of these deaths) is a tragedy, from people who have evidently had exceptionally easy lives, or do not know the meaning of words. It is a horrible, gut wrenching, world-shattering thing—but not for those saying it. For Iman and Rima Horton, and for others who knew them and loved them, it is terrible beyond words. I do not attempt to feel for them. Humans are poor at sharing grief, or understanding it, but I acknowledge it.

But this isn’t a tragedy for you. Someone you don’t know has died, and they won’t make any more art. Unfortunate. But if that is a tragedy for you, I marvel at your golden life. That isn’t even something to sigh wistfully about.

Among all the misplaced moaning, there is a something of more value: celebration. Rickman and Bowie, and Eugie before them, didn’t go gently into that good night. They left behind great works. While all those who post pictures on the Internet have no connection, no blood to drain, they do have those great works. Loving and mourning and celebrating the individuals is for others. But celebrating, that is for you. So stop inappropriate cries, or pointless introspection of your own mortality (you’re mortal—if you didn’t come to grips with that when you were 18, give it up), and instead listen to Major Tom’s lyrical tale, or watch Hans Gruber play terrorist, or read about a woman who can hear a talking skunk. Then laugh, or cry, or yell, or sing, not to the people you didn’t know, but to the great things they left us. Celebrate their works.

That’s what you can do.