Blog Dis
To love the dead
2025-10-23
Our digital age is hard cement, and once captured in coded digital form, your words and likeness online are hardened solid into a brick of cement that'll weather the storms. The worst words flung at an individual online will stain the way, and shall be carved in stone with your name, like an aged epitaph on a tombstone in a graveyard that's gone untended for decades. Does this mean that when you die, you'll still be live online? Why yes of course it will! As to the quality of memory that defines you, this will remain to be seen, until that is time has passed after your death.
One man posted an image of his elderly father that he pulled up on Google, back in the days when Google flew drones over every city, to map out the entire North American geography for Google Maps. Whenever this son wants to see his father, he need only search the address of his father's house to view an image of him outside, in the sun, doing what he loved best, tending his beloved garden. It's kind of touching, tho' maybe a little disturbing too, given that our elderly parents are not all schooled in the area of digital longevity. I know my elderly mother doesn't want to be on the Internet. I haven't the heart to tell her that it's already too late. Her grandchildren have had children and whenever my Mom attended a family event, pictures were taken, to document the occasion. Some found their way to Facebook. No surprise.
A while back, I saw an interview with Gabriel Byrne (Irish actor) speaking about his love for a dead author, and poet, and how their legacy resonated with him. During his interview, he posed this scenario to the audience, "Can you love the dead?" His answer was a resounding yes. He admitted to loving this dead artist for years. Initially, my first reaction was to wonder how this could, should be possible, until the very same thing had happened to me. I fell in love with the dead, with a British actor who wrote novels, and this love of mine had surprised me because it didn't materialize until 30 years after his death. Now that more time has passed, I realize that this brand of love has less to do with the years gone by or little to do with the notion of loving the dead. Instead, for me, loving the dead has everything to do with your mind and heart making an invisible connection - what your heart has attached itself to, without your forethought, or pre-approval.
If an author writes exceptionally well, admittedly I will fall head over heels in love with their work and I'll set about to get every one of their books to devour.
We never actively choose with whom we fall in love. We're merely the players in this life, who are too often hapless fools, operating on the belief that our minds are made up for ourselves, rather than to be swept up by the torrent of love, as the late great Leonard Cohen wisely penned, "Love seizes you." Yet, to love a dead poet, a dead author, a dead stage actor or dead movie star, all these forms of love are pointless, and similarly also worthwhile. This is the crux of love. Love isn't supposed to follow a rule-book of guidelines, of what is normal or healthy, or what is meant to last or wither. Take musicians, as another example. Those who grew up listening to their music were defined by their era and what they loved, like their favourite rock band or singer. I won't ever comprehend the undying love of Elvis Presley but those who visit Memphis every year, to make vigil at his tombstone, don't need to have it explained why their love has lasted nearly three decades after the death of their idol. They need only replay his music, over and again, to ignite a measure of that original spark that started their long-lasting love affair.
And then falling in love with the dead may very well happen again to you, as it did to me in 2020. This was during the pandemic, at the mid-point. I was thinking of my favourite author, Paul William Roberts (British and Canadian author, journalist and professor who taught in universities on three continents). I wondered why there hadn't been any new releases from him. So, my fingers went for a wee stroll on Google and I came across his obituary. As I read, I learned he died of a cerebral hemorrhage in mid-2019. The tears started to roll down my cheeks. I realized at this moment that I'd never get to read a new book from him, ever again, and that I was in fact in love with him, by virtue of this emotional shock. Mr. Roberts was a recluse in later years, choosing to live a quiet life in rural Quebec with his wife. He continued to write, despite the challenge of having lost most of his eyesight due to his travels to Iraq, as a journalist, and being exposed to the shrapnel in the atmosphere, courtesy of the scud-missiles launched by the US army during the two Iraq wars.
Every year I re-read Paul's travelogues, which to me are a combination of hilarity and history, peppered with the harsh reality of life and politics. Some of his books deal with the serious matter of the brutality of war, and the casualties that continue to be swept up because of the hard-a** politics of old men in power, who send young men off to war, to fight and die for their agenda.
And some of his non-travelogue books are about the underworld of crime, as in the case of Smokescreen: One Man Against the Underworld, co-written with another author, retelling the tale of an American who is manipulated by the CIA to take down a money-laundering king pin. This too is a very funny book and also serious, much like his one work of fiction called Homeland, which was released long before the series of the same name had hit Showtime.
I love Paul's books. I can safely predict that my love is not likely to die anytime soon. Each time I re-read his travelogues, I learn something new, and I'm reminded why his writing is so damn good. Do not equate quality with quantity. There are some authors who've written over 230 books, like Nora Roberts, who is hugely popular in the romance genre. I say good for her. Her readers are obviously thrilled with her romance stories.
However, this post is about loving the dead, so I'll happily stick with one of my favourite genres which is travel. The fact that Mr. Roberts parlayed his Oxford education into a journalist career, and then to write witty travelogues, steeped in history, is just one of the reasons why my love for him is steadfast. I was able to attend his lecture on his book Journey of the Magi, when he appeared at Ottawa's Writer's Festival in 2006. Afterward, I lined up to get his autograph on my copy of his book, and I chatted with him like some bubble-head groupie, thrilled to meet her author hero. This was before love had seized me, of course. Too bad I can't travel back in time.
RIP, Mr. Roberts.
One man posted an image of his elderly father that he pulled up on Google, back in the days when Google flew drones over every city, to map out the entire North American geography for Google Maps. Whenever this son wants to see his father, he need only search the address of his father's house to view an image of him outside, in the sun, doing what he loved best, tending his beloved garden. It's kind of touching, tho' maybe a little disturbing too, given that our elderly parents are not all schooled in the area of digital longevity. I know my elderly mother doesn't want to be on the Internet. I haven't the heart to tell her that it's already too late. Her grandchildren have had children and whenever my Mom attended a family event, pictures were taken, to document the occasion. Some found their way to Facebook. No surprise.
A while back, I saw an interview with Gabriel Byrne (Irish actor) speaking about his love for a dead author, and poet, and how their legacy resonated with him. During his interview, he posed this scenario to the audience, "Can you love the dead?" His answer was a resounding yes. He admitted to loving this dead artist for years. Initially, my first reaction was to wonder how this could, should be possible, until the very same thing had happened to me. I fell in love with the dead, with a British actor who wrote novels, and this love of mine had surprised me because it didn't materialize until 30 years after his death. Now that more time has passed, I realize that this brand of love has less to do with the years gone by or little to do with the notion of loving the dead. Instead, for me, loving the dead has everything to do with your mind and heart making an invisible connection - what your heart has attached itself to, without your forethought, or pre-approval.
If an author writes exceptionally well, admittedly I will fall head over heels in love with their work and I'll set about to get every one of their books to devour.
We never actively choose with whom we fall in love. We're merely the players in this life, who are too often hapless fools, operating on the belief that our minds are made up for ourselves, rather than to be swept up by the torrent of love, as the late great Leonard Cohen wisely penned, "Love seizes you." Yet, to love a dead poet, a dead author, a dead stage actor or dead movie star, all these forms of love are pointless, and similarly also worthwhile. This is the crux of love. Love isn't supposed to follow a rule-book of guidelines, of what is normal or healthy, or what is meant to last or wither. Take musicians, as another example. Those who grew up listening to their music were defined by their era and what they loved, like their favourite rock band or singer. I won't ever comprehend the undying love of Elvis Presley but those who visit Memphis every year, to make vigil at his tombstone, don't need to have it explained why their love has lasted nearly three decades after the death of their idol. They need only replay his music, over and again, to ignite a measure of that original spark that started their long-lasting love affair.
And then falling in love with the dead may very well happen again to you, as it did to me in 2020. This was during the pandemic, at the mid-point. I was thinking of my favourite author, Paul William Roberts (British and Canadian author, journalist and professor who taught in universities on three continents). I wondered why there hadn't been any new releases from him. So, my fingers went for a wee stroll on Google and I came across his obituary. As I read, I learned he died of a cerebral hemorrhage in mid-2019. The tears started to roll down my cheeks. I realized at this moment that I'd never get to read a new book from him, ever again, and that I was in fact in love with him, by virtue of this emotional shock. Mr. Roberts was a recluse in later years, choosing to live a quiet life in rural Quebec with his wife. He continued to write, despite the challenge of having lost most of his eyesight due to his travels to Iraq, as a journalist, and being exposed to the shrapnel in the atmosphere, courtesy of the scud-missiles launched by the US army during the two Iraq wars.
Every year I re-read Paul's travelogues, which to me are a combination of hilarity and history, peppered with the harsh reality of life and politics. Some of his books deal with the serious matter of the brutality of war, and the casualties that continue to be swept up because of the hard-a** politics of old men in power, who send young men off to war, to fight and die for their agenda.
And some of his non-travelogue books are about the underworld of crime, as in the case of Smokescreen: One Man Against the Underworld, co-written with another author, retelling the tale of an American who is manipulated by the CIA to take down a money-laundering king pin. This too is a very funny book and also serious, much like his one work of fiction called Homeland, which was released long before the series of the same name had hit Showtime.
I love Paul's books. I can safely predict that my love is not likely to die anytime soon. Each time I re-read his travelogues, I learn something new, and I'm reminded why his writing is so damn good. Do not equate quality with quantity. There are some authors who've written over 230 books, like Nora Roberts, who is hugely popular in the romance genre. I say good for her. Her readers are obviously thrilled with her romance stories.
However, this post is about loving the dead, so I'll happily stick with one of my favourite genres which is travel. The fact that Mr. Roberts parlayed his Oxford education into a journalist career, and then to write witty travelogues, steeped in history, is just one of the reasons why my love for him is steadfast. I was able to attend his lecture on his book Journey of the Magi, when he appeared at Ottawa's Writer's Festival in 2006. Afterward, I lined up to get his autograph on my copy of his book, and I chatted with him like some bubble-head groupie, thrilled to meet her author hero. This was before love had seized me, of course. Too bad I can't travel back in time.
RIP, Mr. Roberts.
