I just finished reading “White Noise” by DeLillo and although I feel sort of barbaric typing it out, I wish someone would have actually died. It’s not that I’m bloodthirsty. Quite the opposite actually. Usually I am squeamish as hell. I can often be found quailing.
Speaking of this (and I’ll return to my clumsy attack on someone else’s art in just a moment) I have been thinking lately of scenes in movies in which someone gets their head bludgeoned and spattered.
You know the sort I’m talking about. It starts with a fight or tense discussion. They grapple, the bludgeoner grasps for something heavy, we get a shot of the soon-to-be-bludgeonee on the floor (eye’s all squinty and hands held up in defense), followed by a shot of the bludgeoner lifting the blunt object over their head, moving into a quick down-swing. And then, you hear a wet crunching noise and you know some bloke just got bludgeoned. Probably there will be some blood on the walls or face of the violent-freako with the blunt object. Call me lily-livered, but I hate this sort of thing.
I invariably close my eyes for this sort of scene. And I suspect that if I were ever to be in a ballistic manifestation of my general grouchiness, I would refrain from punching someone in the face out of an abject fear that it would elicit this exact crunching noise.
But back to “White Noise.” The main fellow in this book (as well as many other characters) was obsessed with the idea of his own death. And although it seems more optimistic to think that we should all privately grapple with the idea of death and learn to deal with it, I rather wanted him to die. He just seemed so tormented that I thought it might be more pleasant for him to be freed from the anticipation.
I’m not trying to be morbid or particularly sadistic. I liked the guy; he wore black plastic glasses and so do I.
Speaking of this (and I’ll return to my clumsy attack on someone else’s art in just a moment) I have been thinking lately of scenes in movies in which someone gets their head bludgeoned and spattered.
You know the sort I’m talking about. It starts with a fight or tense discussion. They grapple, the bludgeoner grasps for something heavy, we get a shot of the soon-to-be-bludgeonee on the floor (eye’s all squinty and hands held up in defense), followed by a shot of the bludgeoner lifting the blunt object over their head, moving into a quick down-swing. And then, you hear a wet crunching noise and you know some bloke just got bludgeoned. Probably there will be some blood on the walls or face of the violent-freako with the blunt object. Call me lily-livered, but I hate this sort of thing.
I invariably close my eyes for this sort of scene. And I suspect that if I were ever to be in a ballistic manifestation of my general grouchiness, I would refrain from punching someone in the face out of an abject fear that it would elicit this exact crunching noise.
But back to “White Noise.” The main fellow in this book (as well as many other characters) was obsessed with the idea of his own death. And although it seems more optimistic to think that we should all privately grapple with the idea of death and learn to deal with it, I rather wanted him to die. He just seemed so tormented that I thought it might be more pleasant for him to be freed from the anticipation.
I’m not trying to be morbid or particularly sadistic. I liked the guy; he wore black plastic glasses and so do I.
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