Dead Beat: Lost Souls, Lucky Stiffs, and the Perverse Pleasures of Obituariesby Marilyn Johnson
Marilyn Johnson was enthralled by the remarkable lives that were marching out of this world—so she sought out the best obits in the English language and the people who spent their lives writing about the dead. She surveyed the darkest corners of Internet chat rooms, and made a pilgrimage to London to savor the most caustic and literate obits of all. Now she… See more details below
Marilyn Johnson was enthralled by the remarkable lives that were marching out of this world—so she sought out the best obits in the English language and the people who spent their lives writing about the dead. She surveyed the darkest corners of Internet chat rooms, and made a pilgrimage to London to savor the most caustic and literate obits of all. Now she leads us on a compelling journey into the cult and culture behind the obituary page and the unusual lives we don't quite appreciate until they're gone.
The New York Times
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The Dead BeatLost Souls, Lucky Stiffs, and the Perverse Pleasures of Obituaries
By Marilyn Johnson
HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.Copyright © 2006 Marilyn Johnson
All right reserved.
I Walk the Dead Beat
People have been slipping out of this world in occupational clusters, I've noticed, for years. Four journalists passed their deadline one day, and their obits filled a whole corner of the paper. What news sent them over the edge? How often do you see two great old actresses take their bows, or two major-league pitchers strike out together? Often enough to spook. Some days sculptors are called, some days pioneer cartoonists. A New York Times editor threw up his hands on June 13, 2004, and ran two almost perfectly parallel stories under one headline: winners of the medal of honor from two eras die; both men saved fellow marines.
It is more than coincidence, and certainly more than the vigilance of an editor on the graveyard shift. It's supernatural. I thrilled recently to a pair of obituaries for Paul Winchell, the voice of Tigger in Pooh, and John Fiedler, the voice of Piglet in Pooh; the two had gone silent a day apart. I keep them next to my clip from October 25, 1986, the day the New York Times ran side-by-side obituaries for the scientist who isolated vitamin C and the scientist who isolated vitamin K. One was ninety-three; the other ninety-two. One died on a Wednesday, one on a Thursday. One's farewell ran three columns, one ran two. One extracted the vitamin from tons of cattle adrenals scooped from the Chicago slaughterhouses, and also from paprika. One extracted female hormones from tons of sow ovaries. Make something of these differences if you dare. Albert Szent-Gyorgyi and Edward Adelbert Doisy, Sr., Dr. C and Dr. K respectively, both Nobel Prize winners, left the world together.
Did they get the idea from John Adams and Thomas Jefferson? In 1826, the second and third presidents of the United States died in harmony on July 4, exactly fifty years after they signed the Declaration of Independence. The New-York American wrote:
By a coincidence marvellous and enviable, THOMAS JEFFERSON in like manner with his great compeer, John Adams, breathed his last on the 4th of July. Emphatically may we say, with a Boston paper, had the horses and the chariot of fire descended to take up the patriarchs, it might have been more wonderful, but not more glorious. We remember nothing in the annals of man so striking, so beautiful, as the death of these two "time-honoured" patriots, on the jubilee of that freedom, which they devoted themselves and all that was dear to them, to proclaim and establish. It cannot all be chance.
No, surely it cannot all be chance. These are mystical forces, and what better place to find them at work than in the obituaries?
Such coincidences don't occur every day, but it wouldn't take you a week to begin a creative collection. A veteran UPI photographer and a veteran AP photographer. A professor of theology, a pastor, and a nun. An author named Arthur, an architect named Aaron, and an artist named Alois. Two obstetricians. The inventor of alternate-side-of-the-street parking and one of the founders of Evelyn Wood's course in alternate-word reading. The service industry of Hollywood -- a hairdresser, a caterer, and a costume designer. Princess Diana and Mother Teresa! Cary Grant and Desi Arnaz. The head of the tiniest kingdom in the world, the Vatican (Pope John Paul II), and the leader of the second-tiniest kingdom in the world, Monaco (Prince Rainier).
This is not craziness. It's careful newspaper reading. Each day, after I read, I wash the newsprint off my hands and think about universal harmonies. I think about things I haven't thought about since childhood, such as guardian angels. I used to believe we each walked around with a sort of ghost of ourself guiding and watching over us. Is it possible that instead of a guardian angel we each have a double, a guarantee that our work gets done? If we're the sort who isolates alphabet vitamins, there are two of us, just in case. If we are the voice of Tigger, the voice of Piglet backs us up.
A friend of mine used to collect "bus plunge" headlines. You'd be amazed how easy these are to collect. Buses plunge over cliffs and into canyons across the world, and newspaper editors seem resigned to the sameness and predictability of such a universal death. Nearly every headline reads, so many killed in such and such country's bus plunge. Once, the New York Times reported 10 die in brazil bus plunge, though it wasn't even a bus that plunged. It was a truck. But the convention persists.
I think of bus plunges as the generic passing. Many of us took the plunge yesterday. What did we have in common? We happened to be riding the same bus. Perhaps the bus is literal -- ten of us over a precipice in a south Brazilian state. Or perhaps it is metaphoric -- an imaginary bus that on Saturday encapsulates two vitamin scientists and on Sunday bears a cargo of handmaidens to Hollywood.
The bus is an attempt to grasp the unthinkable, of course: one day we're riding along on the highway; the next, we plunge out of sight. Who knows who might be sitting beside us? Watergate prosecutor Archibald Cox's seatmate was Watergate counsel Sam Dash. Lawrence Welk's trumpeter and his accordion player played a duet out the door. The queen of the Netherlands and the king of the frozen french fry left the party together. The editor-in-chief of the Bulletin of Atomic Scientists went off with the lead guitarist for a rock group called the Blasters. I clipped them all. The New York Times comes each morning in a blue plastic wrapper, and never fails to deliver news of the important dead. Every day is new; every day is fraught with significance. I arrange my cup of tea, prop up my slippers. I open the not-yet-smudged pages of newsprint. Obituaries are history as it is happening. I know one of . . .
Excerpted from The Dead Beat by Marilyn Johnson Copyright © 2006 by Marilyn Johnson. Excerpted by permission.
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Despite the poet, death has dominion¿in the hands of Marilyn Johnson and others of her ilk. The writing of obituaries, once shoved into the hands of novice or down-and-nearly-out journalists, has come into its own in recent years. The fine art of honing the human life and spirit to find its essence has resulted in a new generation of writers and readers. Some of us are so addicted, we begin the day with a cruise through the morning paper not for the comics, sports page or horoscopes but for the obits. In reading of people we wish we might have known, we encounter some of the finest (and fastest) writing available. Johnson introduces us to some of those writers, often with a poetry of words to capture their essences. She tells tales out of school and sets aside the old pattern of chronologies as the means of relating a lifestory. Her characters, living and dead, are people we¿d like to have met. I, for one, would like to meet her and she isn¿t dead! Johnson¿s writing is filled with the rhythms and vibrancy of life. An excellent, if unusual, read.
Marilyn Johnson has touched on a subject that is with us all on a daily basis, one some of us are secretly fascinated by, others are much more open in their appreciation of, and yet which most of us of us take for granted. That of obituaries. Who writes them, how have they evolved, and why do some of them touch us even though they are written of people we have never known nor even heard of? This book is eye opening and fun. A joy to read and will make one laugh and be touched, often within the same paragraph. A truly quirky celebration of life.
Marilyn Johnson¿s `The Dead Beat¿ has been an awakening for me. I had always considered myself as someone who read the newspaper from the first to last page. And yet, I have always been amused at those people who would be drawn to `The Irish Sports Section¿. After reading this book, I realized that I had been avoiding the obituaries and denying myself `perverse pleasures¿. Now, the author may recoil at any suggestion that she exhibits cultish behavior in her chosen craft as an obituarist. But, the passion for her profession shines through with a blend of dignity, respect and a healthy sense of humor. `The Dead Beat¿ is a remarkable tribute to her profession. I particularly enjoyed her homage to many of the pioneer obituarists of the egalitarian tributes. She has done her homework and I appreciate the history lesson. The author demonstrates a reverence for her chosen profession and genuine compassion for the deceased and those they leave behind. I value the education on obituary structures and styles and I came away thinking I had just completed a course in Obituaries 101. Above all else, `The Dead Beat¿ was entertaining and enlightening and I have become a new fan of the obituary. I will no longer avoid this rich section of the newspaper and I may just start searching the online obituary resources as detailed in the book. The notes, references and bibliography are useful and thorough for those who want to pursue more.
Made by a big shrub and can fit at least 15 cats
Here's how to make a book about death fun. From the Poe raven on the front to the death of newspapers to their rebirth on the net, Marilyn Johnson really buries you in her passions. These are real ghosts that are made to come alive.
Finally a book about those dedicated people who allow no person to leave this world unnoticed. Our true history is in the many obituaries of so called 'normal' people and their passing is recorded with wit, integrity and even humor. Thank you, Marilyn Johnson.