stiffed

Haven't reviewed anything in a while; unusually this is about something I'm currently reading, Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers by Mary Roach. I'm just midway through it, but basically it's wonderful.

Although chock full of fascinating insights into death, the thing that's fascinated me most thus far is her depiction of the process of decomposition. Although haciendas (you'll have to read the book) and carnivorous beetles help, essentially the enzymes and bacteria living inside you right this very second, if not checked by the fact that you're alive would (given some time) pretty much suffice to liquefy you, break you down into your constituent proteins and such, and return you to the world. All except skin and bones and hair, anyway. We contain all that's needed to dismantle us. I find that idea kind of beautiful.

I've been quoting from this book around the office most of this week, to general squirms and discomfort. But my friend Vikram, who grew up in India, has been very interested, or at least far better at humoring me. I suspect he has a different (and possibly better) cultural perspective on death and dying than most non-morbid Americans or Europeans.

From the book: "Life contains these things: leakage and wickage and discharge, pus and snot and slime and gleet. We are biology. We are reminded of this at the beginning and the end, at birth and death. In between we do what we can to forget."