Obituary Ontology

Maria Jose of Savoy died on Saturday, at age 94. She was Queen of Italy for 27 days. Leo Marks passed away on Jan. 15. He wrote codes for British commandos in World War II and books thereafter. I know this because I have a morbid fascination. I like to read obituaries.

I do not mean the paid death notices that fill the back pages of newspapers in tight columns of small print. These have their own terse poetry, packed with acronyms and abbreviations, reducing life to a few fragmentary sentences. They whet my appetite, but leave it unsated.

Instead, I glut myself on the full-length eulogies of The New York Times. Every day, above the short notices, they print a page full of brief biographies. Their subjects have led extraordinary lives, achieved some measure of fame or renown, or married into the Ochs or Sulzberger families. Each is a diamond-in-the-rough, a jewel awaiting my discovery.

Take, for example, Maria Jose of Savoy. The Times allots her a scant 317 words. Most of the obituary is an account of the Italian monarchy in the turmoil of the war and the years that followed, explaining how Maria Jose came to sit on the throne for less than a month before the monarchy was abolished, and her husband and son banished. Only around the edges do we glimpse the woman; the spirited Belgian princess who refused Mussolini's demand that she adopt an Italian name; the anti-fascist trapped in a dynasty that supported Il Duce; the regal woman who was separated from her deposed husband, and held court in her villa near Geneva for the rest of her days.

Many of the obituaries are like this one. They tell the tales of the rich or the prominent, and focus more on the events that shaped their lives than on how their lives shaped those events. They are two-minute history lessons, with just enough color and personality to engage the reader. My favorites, however, are the individual portraits, often so vivid that their recently departed subject seems to return to life on the page.

Chrissie Collins, I discovered last week, died at the age of 94. While her name meant nothing to me, her story did. She and her husband had sought to protect their daughter from a potentially fatal reaction to tetanus antitoxin by equipping her with a bracelet, on which they printed 'Medic Alert.' Others saw the bracelet, and wanted their own. Today, almost 50 years later, nearly four million people wear MedicAlert bracelets, and they have saved over 80,000 lives. It is an all-American story: two parents saw a problem, found a common sense solution, and created a foundation to help others. They were not of royal blood, nor did they ever achieve any degree of fame. But in death, Mrs. Collins receives 756 words in The New York Times, a queenly chunk of print.

This is not to suggest that individual merit may be measured in column-inches. Sometimes, a story is so compelling that it simply begs for more newsprint. My recent favorite is Morris Lapidus, a flamboyant Florida hotel architect, upon whom The Times bestowed a full 1,772 words.

Mr. Lapidus, who died at age 98, was an architect of postmodern inclinations too far ahead of his time. His style was described by one contemporary critic as "the epitome of the apogee." Another remarked that the Fontainebleau Hotel in Miami Beach was "the nation's grossest national product." Lapidus was delightfully unapologetic for his excesses. Today, the hotels that critics once scorned for their absurd opulence are now treasured for that very reason.

Every day there are a few more obituaries, each compelling, and each unique. Each is there because another human being has died. While their families and friends grieve, tens of thousands of readers pore over the distilled essences of their lives, often discovering the simple fact of their existence for the first time. The tragedy is that these stories often remain untold until after their subject has passed on. Unless an editor makes an embarrassing error, no one lives to read or appreciate his own obituary. In our news-crazed culture, there are few other excuses for retelling an old story. More than once, I have been so moved by an obituary that I wanted desperately to write to its subject, to express my admiration or appreciation. More than once, I have wished for the chance to meet them. It is, of course, always too late.

It sometimes seems that we only come to appreciate those around us when we have already lost them. Like diamonds plucked from a glittering tiara, only the gaping void of their absence forces us to focus on the importance of their presence. Since arriving at Columbia, as tragic death has succeeded tragic death, I have come to learn about a series of wonderful classmates too late to enjoy their presence. Their obituaries over the last year, like those in The Times, serve to remind me to treasure those around me while I may. For if there is one theme that binds all these stories together, it is that while life is unpredictable, it can also be wonderful.