Only the Last Inch Hurts
Paul Theroux has always said he expects his death to come in some Appointment in Samarra way--he will have traveled somewhere at great trouble and expense, and then be done in by, say, faulty electrical wiring, which is what got Thomas Merton, after years in a monastery in Kentucky. He flew to Thailand for a conference, and faulty fan/shower did not mix.
I can't think of the man's name offhand, but the guy who wrote the definitive guide to the hiking and trekking in the Himalayas stepped off a curb somewhere very urban and was killed.
I've died three times, myself. It was quite peaceful all three. The first, in a lake in Alaska, was due to hypothermia. I remember sinking, I remember feeling very quiet, and I remember thinking it would be nice to wave goodbye to my friends. I have no memory of getting to shore.
The next two times were in the hospital. Not worth talking about.
My three favorite death stories are these:
A farmer was standing in his field in China, minding his own business, when a 900-lb hailstone landed on him. At least that's what it weighed when someone finally got around to weighing it, or that's what they told the police, or something. Nine hundred pounds is what made the papers. One minute, you're hoeing barley, the next you're done.
Along the same vein, here in Alaska, some years ago, a man caught a very large halibut, well over 400 pounds. That would probably make the fish maybe ten feet long, four feet wide. Big fish. A halibut a quarter that size responds to three bullets in the head by getting angry and diving again.
This guy, with the help of a crane and winch, got the fish on board, but it wasn't quite dead yet, and started to flop around. Man slipped in fish scales, and, as best they could figure some days later when they found the boat drifting, fish whacked man in head with its tail.
Finally, there was the ancient Greek, whose name I will not try to spell. He was walking along the beach one day and noticed birds picking things up, gaining some altitude, and dropping them. He went closer to see what was going on. The birds were dropping turtles, to break the shells.
Apparently, a turtle falling from great height is also enough to break a skull.
When I was in high school, I had a teacher who liked to talk about death during classes, especially during tests. Time after time after time, he'd return to a very simple scenario: if you're going to do yourself in, jump off something very, very tall. That way, you have the excitement of freefall--hey, people pay good money for that--and, as he would say,
"Only the last inch hurts."
Yep.
I can't think of the man's name offhand, but the guy who wrote the definitive guide to the hiking and trekking in the Himalayas stepped off a curb somewhere very urban and was killed.
I've died three times, myself. It was quite peaceful all three. The first, in a lake in Alaska, was due to hypothermia. I remember sinking, I remember feeling very quiet, and I remember thinking it would be nice to wave goodbye to my friends. I have no memory of getting to shore.
The next two times were in the hospital. Not worth talking about.
My three favorite death stories are these:
A farmer was standing in his field in China, minding his own business, when a 900-lb hailstone landed on him. At least that's what it weighed when someone finally got around to weighing it, or that's what they told the police, or something. Nine hundred pounds is what made the papers. One minute, you're hoeing barley, the next you're done.
Along the same vein, here in Alaska, some years ago, a man caught a very large halibut, well over 400 pounds. That would probably make the fish maybe ten feet long, four feet wide. Big fish. A halibut a quarter that size responds to three bullets in the head by getting angry and diving again.
This guy, with the help of a crane and winch, got the fish on board, but it wasn't quite dead yet, and started to flop around. Man slipped in fish scales, and, as best they could figure some days later when they found the boat drifting, fish whacked man in head with its tail.
Finally, there was the ancient Greek, whose name I will not try to spell. He was walking along the beach one day and noticed birds picking things up, gaining some altitude, and dropping them. He went closer to see what was going on. The birds were dropping turtles, to break the shells.
Apparently, a turtle falling from great height is also enough to break a skull.
When I was in high school, I had a teacher who liked to talk about death during classes, especially during tests. Time after time after time, he'd return to a very simple scenario: if you're going to do yourself in, jump off something very, very tall. That way, you have the excitement of freefall--hey, people pay good money for that--and, as he would say,
"Only the last inch hurts."
Yep.
posted by e. Readicker-Henderson at 5:48 PM
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