For a person sufficiently creeped out by the possibility of zombies, a simple 1.8 minutes spent chasing the paper trail from Google to the CDC’s drab government website will give them exactly what they’re looking for. Or not.
Converting the act of mourning to something as abstract as a piece of instrumental music serves to further isolate it from death itself. Bradbury skips a step or two: the March IS death.
Like any true, pure fan of something — a fan who has lived through the lens of the object of their fandom, to a point that no one else could possibly understand — I get really stressed out when I think about all the other fans.
To suggest that a city or site can be “done,” like dishes, the laundry, or homework, reduces said city to the limits of the do-er’s consciousness or experience. And to suggest that reality ends with your experience is to be narrow-minded, or ignorant.
I am never sure what it is exactly that makes Chekhov’s former Moscow apartment so entrancing. Maybe the answer is not in the aura, but in the stuff itself: the pens and blankets and desks and hardwood floors.
Where President Obama balances between will and inevitability, we find Buster Keaton, on commencement day, not charging ahead to shape a future, but pausing, vacillating, everywhere at once. Bumbling, stumbling, crashing forward.