I Don’t Want to Die Stupid

I don’t want to die stupid.

Note the importance of the punctuation mark or lack thereof. A grouchy hiker arguing over the choice of paths might exclaim, “I don’t want to die, Stupid.” There is no comma in my sentence: “I don’t want to die stupid.” I’m using “stupid” as an adjective, not as a proper noun.

I’m not sure exactly what questions are going to be on the final exam, but I’m pretty sure, “How many consecutive reruns of ‘Sex and the City’ did you watch?” and “Do you know who Jennifer Aniston is dating?” will not be among them.
I think there may be questions of the form, “Did you read ___?”

What will fit in that blank?

Here’s some sobering, if inescapable algebra: If I read x books a year and I live for y more years, then I get x times y more books. It might be time to choose the titles with a little more care. Which is not to say I regret or resent the hours I spent with my mistresses—John Irving, Carl Hiaasen, James Elroy—but it might be time to devote to my beloved wife. It is time to return to reading classics.

After whoring around, stealing, and drinking with Falstaff for years, Prince Hal ascends to the throne as King Henry IV. When Falstaff greets him, the King replies, “I know thee not, Old Man.” Similarly, it might be time for me to put on my big boy pants and read real books again. Maybe I should start with Shakespeare’s King Henry IV.

A buddy of mine refers to me as a—how did he put it? Oh, yes, I remember now—”pretentious twit.” “You’re amassing a list of titles the way a miser collects gold coins. You can’t take it with you, you know.”

“Oh, yeah?” I replied.

“And the list of subjects about which you know nothing dwarfs the few little islands of competence, you’ve managed to cobble together.”

“Nuh uh.” I said.

“You haven’t read Tolstoy or Dostoevsky. Your knowledge of non-Western literature fits in a thimble with room left over. You don’t know Plato from Pluto”

“Do too,” I said.

“You don’t even speak any languages in addition to your limited proficiency with English.” He continued.

“I was trying to limit the discussion to books” I answered.

Ignoring for the moment whether I should acquire some kinder friends, I would argue that there is something to be said for reading classics so as not to die stupid. Here’s how Harper Lee addressed a similar issue in 1962. The only backstory you may have forgotten is that 12 year-old, Jem, is reading to Mrs. Dubose, a mean spirited, elderly, terminally-ill woman. Scout, the naïve narrator, describes the first time the children are in the scary, bleak room with Mrs. Dubose:

There was a marble-topped washstand by her bed; on it were a glass with a teaspoon in it, a red ear syringe, a box of absorbent cotton, and a steel alarm clock standing on it.

Subsequently, the children’s father comes by to pick them up after they have finished reading.

“Do you know what time it is, Atticus?” [Mrs. Dubose] said. “Exactly fourteen minutes past five. The alarm clock’s set for five-thirty. I want you to know that.”

It suddenly came to me that each day we had been staying a little longer at Mrs. Dubose’s, that the alarm clock went off a few minutes later every day, and that she was well into one of her fits by the time it sounded. Today she had antagonized Jem for nearly two hours with no intention of having a fit.

…

“I have a feeling that Jem’s reading days are numbered,” said Atticus.
“Only a week longer, I think,” she said, “just to make sure…”
…

When she dies, the children finally learn why they were forced to spend so many tedious afternoons with her:

“Mrs. Dubose was a morphine addict,” said Atticus. “She took it as a pain-killer for years. The doctor put her on it. She’d have spent the rest of her life on it and died without so much agony, but she was too contrary—”

…

Perhaps mountain climbers and ultra-marathoners can appreciate Mrs. Dubose’s accomplishment.

If Mrs. Dubose can kick opium, surely I can beat ignorance.

What is the legacy that you want to leave for your children? What do you want them to have to remember you by when you’ve gone on to that great library in the sky? Do you think they will look back on their dearly departed parents and remark: “Remember that time at the mall we were in the checkout line at the clothing store and we read that article about that famous woman who cheated on her boyfriend and went out with that sports star and then he dumped her?”

Wouldn’t you agree that it is more likely that your kids will wish they could say, “My dad modeled for us his love of reading and his love of learning”?

And for goodness gracious sakes, whatever you do, you and your kids need to put down those electronics. If crotchety, old Mrs. Dubose can kick morphine and if I can get back to reading literature, surely you and your family can go one day each week without your glowing rectangles and pulsating screens.

You and your children can live for a few hours without texting and email. Set a steel alarm clock on the marble-topped washstand if you have to.