Burial Rites

Knocked out the book Burial Rites by Hannah Kent this week for book club. It’s a first novel, not a bad novel, and we’ll see where her career goes. She likes to do her research, kindling her imagination with hard, frozen facts. This process appeals to me; perhaps I’ll put it to use someday. Anyway, this chunk on page 200 got me thinking:

“It had begun to snow most days in the north. Breidabolstadur was clouded in a thick fog and a cold that refused to lift, even as the October sun brought what little light it could into the world. Despite the weather, Toti was reluctant to stay at home with his father. He felt that some invisible membrane between Agnes and him had been broken. She had begun, finally, to speak of Natan, and the thought that she might draw him closer still, might trust him enough to speak of what had happened at Illugastadir, set something quickening in him.” At which point the young priest, Toti, feels compelled to cast caution to the wind, defying fever chills and braving blizzards for the sole purpose of having a conversation.

There’s a feeling in that paragraph that I knew well in my youth, but haven’t felt much at all in the last 10 years. It might be a function of aging, of the bloom being off the world’s rose, but I think I’ll just blame Facebook. I’d say social media in general, but I’m square in the middle of the pack that picked Facebook and stuck with it. Instagram I’d do, but it’s mobile-mostly and my cell’s camera’s not the best. (I’m not the fanciest photographer, but I’m far too creatively vain to post most of what comes off its wee-little lens.) Twitter, yeah, that happens, sometimes.

But before then, before life got so wired up, connection was rare and wild and to be cherished. Letters had to be saved with envelopes intact, for a return address once lost might never be found. We’d carry beat-up notebooks like holy writ, spiral-bound and filled with names and numbers and the details of last-known residence, unreliable relics of friends past. But we’d make them do: We’d knock on doors, tape notes to windshields, commandeer payphones with fists full of quarters, spread the word, see what might shake out, chasing action like Titans keen to make the scene. Heroes, just for one day.

And when the fearful questions woke the mind, when the big plans erupted from wily whims of late-night longing, we knew who to consult. It was all in the notebook! Our own personal I Ching! We scoured for the names, deciphered the numbers from coffee-stained pages. We called upon these our guides, our oracles, our way-pointing lanterns in the night, those friends who alone held the keys to the evolution of mind, soul, and so many various permutations of good times.

So off we went again, and phones would ring, and answering machines would be abused, and cars would crank-over under cover of darkness with windows down and high-beams up. Not always about a girl mind you. Not always. But often.

Now? Hey, I’ll check Facebook first. If you’re on there, great. I’ll see that you just got back from a trip with the kids to Disney. And I’ll note that you’re working in supply-chain management outside of Raleigh. And I’ll think: You’re probably busy.

If you’re not on there, boo. The mystery will hang in the air for a minute or two, but I’ll soon be distracted by some other random posts from the people that we used to know. And that’ll be good enough for now, good enough to turn action into distraction, to pull in enough friendly information to dull the urgency, deflate the plot before it’s even been hatched.

But I’d still like to have that conversation, still like the thought of meeting you somewhere in the middle, doing diner food at midnight. I know it’ll be a little weird. I know we’re out of practice. But let’s give it a try, alright? Eyeball to eyeball, my mind to your mind, my thoughts to your thoughts. I’ll pick up the check, you can leave the tip.

I haven’t much to say about the rest of the book. It was a good read, nice length, well-paced. And I appreciate the author’s threading of the narrative through a combination of our ill-fated heroine’s first-person reflections and her conversations with her keepers. I was compelled to keep reading through the middle parts, often the sloggiest any book’s pages. I hear Jennifer Lawrence has been tapped for the film. In my mind the young priest, Toti, could only be played by James Corden. I’ll have to call his agent and let him know.