Burning Down the House

I read Nibley's "Temple and Cosmos" over the break; one of the essays in it posits that the one function religion must serve is to answer "the terrible questions," namely, why are we here and what happens when we die. If religion doesn't answer those questions, it fails in its function. Harold Bloom said something similar, to the effect of, "What is the essence of religion? Freud called it the desire for the father, others for the mother, others for transcendence...I fear these are all mere idealizations, and would all fade away if we did not know we must die." This incidentally is the theme of DeLillo's "White Noise," wherein the protagonist refutes the claim that life's brevity makes us better appreciate it better; for him, one can't enjoy anything, because the moment we begin to, we remember we'll one day die and thus never be able to enjoy it again. Death ruins everything, he says, it's the white noise (eh? eh?) permeating our existence. My, that got morbid fast, now didn't it! I didn't mean it to, though I do that a lot. Once in class we were discussing Melville's "Bartelby the Scrivener," and I offered that Bartelby ceases to function because he realizes we're all just dead letters on our way to the furnace. Every one slouched in their chairs, stared at the table despairingly, and I was left in the role of the comic figure, shrugging my shoulders goin' "what? what'd I say?" I was probably surprised at their response, since one can't study literature without tripping over the terrible questions constantly. I mean, c'mon, Hamlet? In Memoriam? Paradise Lost? The Waste Land? What else are these works about? But then, I'm religious; I fear not oblivion but rather a just God. I can afford to talk morbidly without becoming morbid, I guess. I suspect those who become morbid are hiding from the terrible questions more than anyone. On a brighter note, I think someone should write a rom-com entitled "Burning Down the House," featuring the Talking Heads song prominently. It should feature giant explosions, maybe the protagonist's apt. blowing up so he has to move in with his ex, and mayhem and rediscovered love ensue while the arsonist (perhaps played by Jack Black) continues on the loose. Maybe the secret arsonist is the protagonist's best friend. C'mon, screenwriter hacks, this crap writes itself! I want a rom-com with giant explosions--do I need to write this myself?