As I have asserted elsewhere, I am not obsessed with pirates, but I am unconvincing, so I received this gift of playing cards. That said, I’m not here to talk about pirates; I’d like to debate the assertion that “Dead Men Tell No Tales.”
This just ain’t true.
The dead speak volumes, and no discipline demonstrates this more than writing. If you’re watching a Shitty Action Movie with a scene that takes place at a Fancy Gala Event, you’re sure to hear Pachelbel’s Canon in D. And any time one needs a stock example of Art, The Giaconda is always close at hand. But there is nothing quite like writing that invigorates long collapsed voices, and literally sounds the words of the departed like a bell in your brain. It empowers readers to “animate anew the deformed and mangled carcass of the slain;” to sufflate the long-folded lungs of the dead and give old voices a rebirth.
It is perhaps wishful thinking that I will one day be important enough to be assassinated, but a man can dream. Once I am shot dead while eating brunch, my morbid fantasy continues: an acne-crusted scholar (preferably a virgin) shall wade deep through my notebooks and web logs with a hermeneutical bloodlust. He will spill ink for tomes of hollow eisegesis and turn my hamfisted ramblings into The Hamfisted Ramblings: Personal Inventory Of A Misunderstood Genius. Or he’ll claim I was a misogynist.
I’d suggest dividing it up into a few volumes to boost sales, but who cares what I think. I’ll be dead.