The Death Issue

              Once upon a time, I attempted to write a novel. I bought a leather-bound maroon book with gold trim and lined paper and told myself I would scribe until the end of the volume and publish it (in the process becoming rich and famous and getting a dog). I was six. Needless to say I did not make it to the end of that book. In fact I only finished about 20 pages in my huge first grade block letters. The book was about two friends who grew apart, but got back together  due to an elaborate plan and some minor animal kidnapping. The girls, named Anika and Sophie, were my dream alter-egos. They had their own rooms, pets and had delicious things like mac and cheese for dinner, and whipped cream and waffles for breakfast. They were talented (Sophie was a dancer, Anika drew), smart, pretty, basically perfect in every way. But that's what happens in the idyllic world of children's books, everything works out and everyone is special. Its so different from the YA books of today with their death, rape and social destruction-al themes. And transitioning between the happiness of early picture books to the disparaging works that fill my current shelves was one of the most eye-opening moments of my life.
                    Death becomes more integrated into the books we read as we get older, no longer just belonging to sickly animals or ancient grandparents. As death extends its dark reach to our teenage heroes and heroines, we wonder just how vulnerable we are. John Green informs us about cancer, Laurie Halse Anderson tells us about bulimia, Ellen Hopkins opens up our world to drugs. To the closeted reader that I am, books are a way to soak up the impossible and the all to possible. Books are the doorways and manuals to things I have yet to experience, and death is such a huge part of that.
                Where do we go? So many volumes have tried to address this inevitability. What religion doesn't tell us, stories make up, or sometimes refute the teachings of old. Heaven. Hell. What is even the difference? Elsewhere, a charming yet borderline creepy book, tells us we will be reborn as young children, perhaps addressing the degradation of our society and of ourselves. The Golden Compass, or to be more specific the Amber Spyglass, speaks of the dead, shadows in a barren land. The idea of this anomaly troubles me, for although when we were little death was a peaceful slumber, I now know the unknown lays beyond.
                 How will we die? Of course we don't know now, how would life work if we just counted the hours we had left in this world? Books have addressed this issue and more. But back to the question. The Hunger Games teaches us about our inner savages, waiting for the right venue to explode, the potential for violent ends in all of us. The Fault in Our Stars tells us of a different kind, a languishing death, so poignantly slow and painful that it almost hurts to read. Conrad sought suicide in Impulse and found "eternal rest." And others still teach us about the sudden death that occurs via car or crashing wave, unbeknownst until its too late. These different means expose us to both the horrors surrounding us and those within. All waiting until something falls into place and we vacate this world.
              So death surrounds us, and books have taught us that. Exposing some to that which was not imaginable and warning others about their paths. Innocent childhoods stolen by death, lust, greed. They're gone. For me it was books that took away my innocence and opened so many doors. And to think people say that teenagers feel like they're invincible; I feel closer to the grave than ever.