Obituaries never stop informing. Even books and articles about obituaries never stop informing us. Take a fairly recent online piece by Stefany Anne Golberg in The Smart Set, a Drexel University publication.
Ms. Golberg writes an informative account of how obituaries have morphed from mere notices into short story-like art forms. She references several works that have recently appeared about just that type of trend, notably Marilyn Johnson's The Dead Beat, a book that affirms Ms. Johnson's status as a bit of a high priestess on the subject. Other sources are noted as well.
As an example of a mere death notice, or what used to pass as all that would be said about the departed, however known, Ms. Golberg uses a 1891 blurb as an example:
Herman Melville died yesterday at his residence, 104 East Twenty-sixth Street, of heart failure, aged seventy-two...
There's a little more, (very little) about survivors and the names of some books he wrote, one of which is misspelled. But that's it.
Re-reading Stefany's piece I realized I was being told why the single street sign across the street from where I work proclaims the east side of Park Avenue South and 26th Street to be Herman Melville Square. (There is no Square, however.) I always figured it had something to do with the fact that he lived nearby, but I never knew where. Now I do.
There is a 104 East 26th Street. Or at least a heavy black metal door that is to the left of the freight entrance of a cast iron office building with that number above it. There is a bell that says the door is for the "Penthouse Only." But the best part is there is a plaque, Virginia, however poorly placed and nearly inconspicuous that proclaims that Herman Melville lived there from 1863-1891, and that he wrote Billy Budd and other stories while "living" there.
The building this plaque is attached to was built after Melville's residence. The plaque is hard by the building next to it, the 69th Regiment Armory, also built after Melville. So, the address lives, but little else.
There wouldn't be anything Melville would recognize if he were to emerge from where that door is now. If he looked hard to the east or west along 26th Street he couldn't see the water. He'd only see a masted ship if it was a logo on a passing beer truck.
But back to Stehany's example of terse notices. This was probably as much a product of the style of the times as it was that to write more meant you had to set more type, and that was labor intensive and time consuming. It was easier to talk about someone than to write about them.
Take this example for directness. While not an obituary per se, it is a news item about the death of someone. It appeared on the front page of the May 6, 1912 New York Times and was at the bottom of a column. It's a favorite.
SITS DOWN; BLOWN TO BITS.
Dynamite in Man's Pocket Strikes
Stone Causing Fatal Explosion.
The very short story goes on to explain that a tree stump remover in Sharon, Mass. sat down on a rock for what would have probably been lunch and a 1912 version of a Subway sandwich. He forgot about the dynamite in his back pocket. He hadn't even heard about trans fat.
But even in today's era something short can be very sweet. I don't know who takes this In Memoriam out each year, but I've been noticing this one now for a few years.
ISSAC STERN
Fiddler
It's all music.
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