Everyone Loves A Good Train Wreck [Hardcover]

After reading and enjoying Eric G. Wilson's Against Happiness, I was pleased to see his latest offering, Everyone Loves a Good Train Wreck. With much of the same scrutiny and informed insight, Wilson lifts the veil and illuminates the darker forces that shadow the human condition. What we often assume to be abnormal, taboo, or insensitive in our attractions or curiosities, Wilson claims instead to be affirming. Clearly it's a tough argument. But the book covers a great deal of territory - from cinema and the news media to 'celebrity' criminals to horrific public spectacles - to posit a convincing, if not a sometimes unsettling, argument. What I appreciate the most are the various angles he uses to support his ideas, borrowing from psychology, mythology, literature, etc. All in all, its a great read, deeply insightful, exhaustive in its coverage, and highly persuasive. I highly recommend the book.

Eric Wilson's Everyone Loves a Good Train Wreck is a book of exceptional - even surprising - depth and importance. My only (small) criticism lies with the book's title, which belies its nuance. Coupled with Wilson's penchant for staccato-short sentences packed within bite-sized chapters, one might be led to assume that Train Wreck is a book that sensationalizes what we all know to be humanity's tendency to gravitate toward the morbid; an opportunistic reworking of the mass media's decades-long addiction to hyped-up, dumbed-down, violence-based "news" (ideally filmed), set to the score of Glenn Frey's 1982 hit, Dirty Laundry. Nothing could be further from the truth. Wilson's book may be an easy read, but it is not a simple one, at least for the thoughtful reader.

Wilson's approach is exhaustive, with the proviso that, when the subject is death, the possibilities for exploration are endless. It is also intensely personal, honest and creative. He is a writer of impressive insight, yet that thoughtfulness comes coupled with an almost endearing willingness to question his own motives (seen in his interaction with Joyce Carol Oates, particularly), the accuracy and completeness of his thesis: That there is something far more meaningful and vital than is implied by an attraction to mortality and death that is commonly viewed as being inherent, thoughtless, or the sign of a defective character (despite the irony that these tendencies reside in so many of us). These self-doubting detours, however, do not weaken Wilson's argument; they only serve to make it broader, more comprehensive.

If there is one central thought that kept occurring to me as I read Train Wreck, it is this: What a wonderful wellspring of conversation this book could be, were companions on hand, willing and able to delve deeply into the myriad tunnels in which such a conversation would inevitably lead. In fewer than 200 pages, Wilson takes the reader on journeys that, in retrospect, are astonishingly diverse. Yet they are largely products of his own interests, reflections of his personal journey, moored to his particular areas of expertise (English professor, father, spouse...). What the book evokes in the reader, however, are a constant stream of complementary thoughts and remembrances, jarred loose from their sometimes well-protected hiding places by Wilson's rhetoric. Here are a few of my own:

This past winter, I was fortunate enough to spend a week in Paris with my fiancée. As is my tendency when traveling any distance, I immediately began sifting through guidebooks in an effort to identify the one that best matched our (at least my) approach to travel. One evening while reading, I came across a sidebar reference to one Franz "The Birdman" Reichelt, a character linked with Paris' rich past, but of whom I had hitherto been ignorant. It seems Mr. Reichelt had, in 1912, jumped from the Eiffel Tower in a dramatic and - as it turned out - horribly misguided attempt to fly, wearing a winged, flying squirrel-esque suit. We would be in Paris on the 100th anniversary of his death. What I found truly fascinating and disturbing about Reichelt's story was that his plummet was filmed; two cameras recorded the event, one on the platform where he stood for nearly a minute, clearly gathering the nerve to jump, the other on the ground below, where a vast crowd had gathered to watch.

I watched the video numerous times, sent it along to friends. To state the obvious, it captured a man's death, which thankfully is not something I see every day. The fact that the film was a century old distanced me from the reality of what happened, on one level, but also gave this singular event an anchored, chronological permanence that might have been lost had I experienced it as part of the non-stop swirl of daily news that inundates us today. Paris, this most beautiful of cities, of Light, of Love, of Art. But also one of the world's great stages for public death; Reichelt's offering was but one small scene in a two millennia long performance of executions and other forms of institutionalized murder or acts of suicide that the city's inhabitants (and, I guess, me) have embraced as one of their most enduring forms of public entertainment. How fascinating and weird is that?

Poet and farmer Wendell Berry in A Man Walking and Singing, addresses death (and life) in, to me, the most poignant and meaningful of ways. Berry writes:

Who is it? speaking to me of death's beauty.

I think it is my own black angel, as near me
as my flesh. I am never divided from his darkness,
his face the black mask of my face. My eyes
live in his black eye-holes. On his black wings
I rise to sing.

...

But the man so forcefully walking,
say where he goes,
say what he hears and what he sees
and what he knows
to cause him to stride so merrily.

...

To his death? Yes.

He walks and sings to his death.

And winter will equal spring.

And for the lovers, even
while they kiss, even though
it is spring, the day ends.

But to the sound of his passing
he sings. It is a kind of triumph
that he grieves - thinking
of the white lilacs in bloom,
profuse, fragrant, white
in excess of all seasonal need,

and of the mockingbird's crooked
arrogant notes, hooking him to the sky
as though no flight
or dying could equal him
at his momentary song.

Finally, interviewed by Vanity Fair in 2005, reclusive writer Cormac McCarthy said the following:

"Most people don't ever see anyone die. It used to be if you grew up in a family you saw everybody die. They died in their bed at home with everyone gathered around. Death is the major issue in the world. For you, for me, for all of us. It just is. To not be able to talk about it is very odd."

McCarthy went on to state that it simply was not possible to take seriously a writer who did not address death. Wilson has nothing to fear on that account.

I found the title enticing and a glimpse of a few pages piqued my interest. Not surprising since the book explores the nature of our morbid curiosities, I found myself increasingly curious about what lurid subject lurked on the next few pages, and continued reading to find out. By the end I really enjoyed the book's structure and quick pacing of anecdotes, memoir, allusions and speculation. I especially found Wilson's comments on the tantalizing nature of celebrity culture insightful and well thought out. This book definitely takes you off the beaten path for a provocative and entertaining read.

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