Author Topic: Some Suicides  (Read 210 times)

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raul

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Some Suicides
« on: March 21, 2018, 06:17:06 am »
Some Suicides

Major Henry Hubert manufactured evidence to convict a Jewish officer,
Captain Alfred Dreyfus, of treason, yet Hubert’s suicide note in 1898
made no admission of guilt.

Percy Bridgman, a Nobel Prize winner in Physics, committed suicide in
1961 while suffering from cancer and wrote, “It isn’t decent for society
to make a man do this thing himself. Probably this is the last day I will
be able to do it myself.”

Jo Roman (1980) wrote a book, as well
her suicide note, arguing for the establishment of places where people
could go in order to commit suicide peacefully in pleasant surroundings.

Craig Badialis and Joan Fox committed suicide after a Vietnam
Peace Moratorium rally at Glassboro State College in New Jersey on
October 16, 1969 (Asinof, 1971), and left notes that advocated peace
(but which were suppressed by the local authorities).

Lupe Velez, a Hollywood actress known as the Mexican
Spitfire. She was divorced from Tarzan’s Johnny Weismuller and pregnant
by a man who was unwilling to marry her. She ordered a Mexican
feast; decorated her bedroom with satin sheets, flowers, candles, and
a crucifix; and ingested seventy-five Seconals. Her note was addressed
to the lover, blaming him for her death and that of their unborn child.

Yukio Mishima committed seppuku in 1970 in front of a regiment of soldiers
after urging them to rise up and restore the Emperor to his rightful, powerful place in Japan.

Taken from Author David Lester

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Holden

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ST's Ghost
« Reply #1 on: March 21, 2018, 09:26:30 am »
Senor Raul,

My cousin S.T.'s suicide was not preceded by failed attempts.In art, to reduce is to perfect. Her disappearance bestowed a negative beauty on her.

   Since she seldom spoke,she was rarely wrong. She seldom spoke as she seldom went out. If she did go out, she listened and watched. Now, since she no longer speaks, she will always be right.

In truth, she still speaks: through those, like me, who bring her back to life.   She remains alive insofar as those who  knew her outlived her. She will die with the last of them. Unless some of them have made her live on in words, in the memory of their children. For how many generations will she live on like this, as a character from a story?

   Her life was a hypothesis. Those who die old are made of the past. Thinking of them, one thinks of what they have done. Thinking of her, one thinks of what she could have become. She was, and she will remain,full of possibilities.
   Her suicide was the most important thing she ever said. Her silence has become a form of eloquence. But they, who can still speak, remain silent.I no longer think of them, those with whom I was formerly so close. But she, who used to be so far-off, distant, mysterious, now seem quite close to me.It is they who have disappeared. She is present.

She does not make me sad, but solemn. She impairs my incurable frivolity.   Having died young, she will never be old.                 
  Only the living seem incoherent. Death closes the series of events that constitutes their lives. So we resign ourselves to finding a meaning for them. To refuse them this would amount to accepting that a life, and thus life itself, is absurd. Hers had not yet attained the coherence of things done. Her death gave it this coherence.
   In public, her quiet way of observing others made them uncomfortable, as if she were a breathing statue, indifferent to all the frivolous movement that the stillness of a statue so underlines.I often wondered, after her death, if that smile, the last one I saw from her, was mocking, or if instead it was the kindly smile of someone who knew that soon she would no longer partake in earthly pleasures.

Her suicide was violent, the result irreversible. She used to think things through before acting. Once she were decided on something, nothing would stop her. Her gaze was no longer fixed on the world around her, but sighted on her target.

Once, my mother’s last dog charged at another dog a hundred meters off. It caught up with the other dog, trampled it, took it by its throat, and shook it like a mouse. It would have killed the beast if they hadn’t been separated. She had that same look.

   Her suicide was an action, but an action with a contrary effect: a form of vitality that produces its own death.
What became of her lover? Has he resigned himself to her death? Does he think of her when he makes love? Did he marry? In killing herself, did she also kill him? Did he name a daughter in her memory? If he has a daughter, does he speak to her of "her"? What does he do on her birthday? And on the anniversary of her death?  Where are the photographs he took of her? Did he keep her clothes? Do they still smell of her?

Does he wear her cologne? What did he do with her drawings? Are they framed in a room of his house?  Which women followed after her? Did she, through her memory of her, make the existence of a successor impossible?

   She monopolizes my memories of sad rock music. When I hear certain songs, they are tainted with her nebulous presence. She thought that treatment would normalize her, or banalize the strangeness she cultivated.

   She kept a tape of the messages left on her answering machine by mistake. One of them went: “We’ve arrived fine. We’ve arrived fine. We’ve arrived fine.” Uttered slowly by an old lady in despair.

   We used to talk through the night, only stopping thanks to the dawn. One evening, she spoke for eight hours nonstop, about Freud and Marx, with something interspersed about Kondratiev cycles.

She refused to be prolific. She would do little, but well, or do nothing rather than do it poorly. She knew nothing of contemporary appetites. She didn’t demand to have it all, all at once. She liked to forgo eating, drinking, smoking, speaking, going out. She was able to dispense with light for days on end, happy in her room with the curtains drawn. She didn’t miss fresh air. She was thrilled by silence. She made a classicism out of this drought.

Keep well.
« Last Edit: March 22, 2018, 01:37:35 am by Holden »
La Tristesse Durera Toujours                                  (The Sadness Lasts Forever ...)
-van Gogh.

Holden

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Re: Some Suicides
« Reply #2 on: March 21, 2018, 10:56:50 am »
I saw her one day at the end of an afternoon of solitary speculation. She was unmoving and petrified. Running several kilometers in a deep forest full of ravines and pitfalls would have exhausted her less.
 In mid-funeral someone started breathing heavily. I didn’t see where the panting came from. It sounded like a wild animal trapped in a cul-de-sac after a long chase. Some people rose to their feet to pick her brother up and to lay him out on a row of chairs. His tears had turned into a panic attack. A few minutes later, while he went on sobbing, her sister also began to feel faint. She too was stretched out. Two creatures distraught by the sadness of her cremation.Her mother was still upright, however. Her father, standing back, felt most guilty.While alive she had noted that in her there was a mixture of the violence of her father and the gentleness of her mother. Her father exerted his violence on others. Her mother was sympathetic to the suffering of others. One day she directed the violence she had inherited toward herself. She dished it out like her father and she took it like her mother.
She died because she searched for happiness at the risk of finding the void.
The way in which she quit it rewrote the story of her life in a negative form. Those who knew her reread each of your acts in the light of her last.  She was like the actoress who, at the end of the play, with a final word, reveals that she is a different character than the one she appeared to be playing.
Most end up sick and old, with withered ghostly bodies, resembling death before they’ve stopped living. Their demise is the fulfillment of  their decrepitude. A ruin that dies: is it not the death of death?

As for her, she departed in vitality. Young, lively, healthy. Her
death was the death of life. Yet I like to think that she embodied the opposite: the life of death.

Keep well,Senor.
« Last Edit: March 21, 2018, 11:04:24 am by Holden »
La Tristesse Durera Toujours                                  (The Sadness Lasts Forever ...)
-van Gogh.

raul

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Re: Some Suicides
« Reply #3 on: March 21, 2018, 07:59:40 pm »
Holden,
Thank you for this powerful post.

“Those who die old are made of the past.” In my case, I stopped "living" years ago. So there is no past.

“Her suicide was the most important thing she ever said”.
Words that go to the heart.

Havind died young, she will never be old.” Yes, she will never suffer the indignities imposed on the body and mind.

“She would no longer partake in earthly pleasures.” Earthly pleasures are only a distraction.

“Only the living seem incoherent.” True, we,the living, are incoherent. Contradictory. Part of life.

We do not want to accept that life is absurd. We block this terrible truth.

You are describing a formidable lady “whose suicide was an action”.

Few ladies would talk for eight hours about Freud and Marx. Well, few would talk eight hours about money issues, the children, the hairdresser, the school, the house, the payments, the neighbors and relatives, etc.

“She died because she searched for happiness at the risk of finding the void.
“As for her, she departed in vitality. Young, lively, healthy.
Her death was the death of life. Yet I like to think that she embodied the opposite: the life of death. “

Powerful words,  Holden, really powerful. Searching life in death. Searching happiness in the void.

You are like those messengers. Messengers are not appreciated, Holden, because they bring bad and sad news. But messengers cannot change their message. Messages that carry the sad truth are not appreciated and so the messengers pay the price.


Stay safe.

raul

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Re: Some Suicides
« Reply #4 on: March 23, 2018, 06:06:29 am »
Holden,

You have shown much love and compassion for the women´s condition, as I understand in your posts, so blessed is the lady that can get at least a smile from you. Although you have decided to remain isolated, both spiritually and physically, your heart is not dry. May you reach the land of rest when time comes.

Stay well. Avoid the snake-cobras.

Creepy Sleepy

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Re: Some Suicides
« Reply #5 on: March 23, 2018, 09:37:18 am »
Thank you, Holden, for writing about your cousin, S.T., here.

I can understand why a strong woman might make such an extreme decision.
Things They Will Never Tell YouArthur Schopenhauer has been the most radical and defiant of all troublemakers.

Gorticide @ Nothing that is so, is so DOT edu

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Creepy Sleepy

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Re: Some Suicides
« Reply #6 on: August 08, 2018, 10:36:27 pm »
August 08, 2018 02:03 PM
VALHALLA, N.Y.

The Latest on a shooting at a hospital outside New York City:

Police say a woman shot to death in her hospital bed outside New York City was killed by her husband, who then killed himself. The man left a note in their home saying he wanted to end her suffering.

Authorities on Wednesday identified them as 71-year-old Richard DeLucia and 70-year-old Ann DeLucia.


Westchester County police say Ann DeLucia was in her room at the Westchester Medical Center in Valhalla when her husband came in and shot her. He then killed himself.
Authorities say each person died from a single gunshot wound.
Investigators found a note from Richard DeLucia at the family home that said his wife had been suffering from illness, and that he was distraught over it.








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Read more here: https://www.thenewstribune.com/news/nation-world/article216303410.html#storylink=cpy
Things They Will Never Tell YouArthur Schopenhauer has been the most radical and defiant of all troublemakers.

Gorticide @ Nothing that is so, is so DOT edu

~ Tabak und Kaffee Süchtigen ~