Friday, October 27, 2006

reading a horrific (but brilliantly, delicately written) piece by Joyce Carol Oates in the New Yorker. It deals with the death of a young man, partly from his parents' pov. I am having to force myself to continue. I now avoid stories (movies, books) with a plotline involving dead children and, to a lesser extent, dead mothers (ie motherless children). because the very idea is a threat to A. the very possibility.

and I understand how people can turn to religion, how they can choose to believe that if they put their trust in God, He will take care of them, keep their baby safe from harm. if I thought it would help A, I would pray every day, ten times a day. and because there's no evidence either way, it's tempting to think "well, it can't hurt". but I'm a humanist. I believe we get this one life, and the how and why of consciousness is essentially the biggest lucky break the universe has ever come up with.

oh but God, protect my child.

Just read that story this afternoon (I'm behind on my New Yorkers) and agree with you completely. It was wrenching, I thought in particular the musings of the father as he looks at his son's ruined face and body. With a 21-month-old son, I find there are so many things I just can't bear to read or watch these days. Recently read The Time Traveler's Wife, a wonderful book, but it made me think too much about how unbearable it would be to die and leave my little boy--my little family.
well, that's definitely a book I can't read. orphaned little boys are my particular horror and will be until I've survived to his 21st.
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