[b]Don DeLillo from White Noise
It was important for him to believe that he’d spent his life among people who kept missing the point.[/b]
Anyone here know why? I mean, besides me.
The family is the cradle of the world’s misinformation.
And, virtually, that’s what we are, isn’t it?
The power of the dead is that we think they see us all the time. The dead have a presence. Is there a level of energy composed solely of the dead?
You know, if you believe that sort of crap. Well, if it is crap.
We drove 22 miles into the country around Farmington. There were meadows and apple orchards. White fences trailed through the rolling fields. Soon the sign started appearing. THE MOST PHOTOGRAPHED BARN IN AMERICA. We counted five signs before we reached the site. There were 40 cars and a tour bus in the makeshift lot. We walked along a cowpath to the slightly elevated spot set aside for viewing and photographing. All the people had cameras; some had tripods, telephoto lenses, filter kits. A man in a booth sold postcards and slides – pictures of the barn taken from the elevated spot. We stood near a grove of trees and watched the photographers. Murray maintained a prolonged silence, occasionally scrawling some notes in a little book.
No one sees the barn, he said finally.
A long silence followed.
Once you’ve seen the signs about the barn, it becomes impossible to see the barn.
He fell silent once more. People with cameras left the elevated site, replaced by others.
We’re not here to capture an image, we’re here to maintain one. Every photograph reinforces the aura. Can you feel it, Jack? An accumulation of nameless energies.
There was an extended silence. The man in the booth sold postcards and slides.
Being here is a kind of spiritual surrender. We see only what the others see. The thousands who were here in the past, those who will come in the future. We’ve agreed to be part of a collective perception. It literally colors our vision. A religious experience in a way, like all tourism.
Another silence ensued.
They are taking pictures of taking pictures, he said.
Next up: THE MOST PHOTOGRAPHED GOD IN AMERICA
When I read obituaries I always note the age of the deceased. Automatically I relate this figure to my own age. Four years to go, I think. Nine more years. Two years and I’m dead. The power of numbers is never more evident than when we use them to speculate on the time of our dying.
Actually, this is a real thing. Go ahead, get started: nytimes.com/section/obituaries
Fear is unnatural. Lightning and thunder are unnatural. Pain, death, reality, these are all unnatural. We can’t bear these things as they are. We know too much. So we resort to repression, compromise and disguise. This is how we survive the universe. This is the natural language of the species.
Naturally.
