Scrooge listened to this dialogue in horror. As they sat grouped about their spoil, in the scanty light afforded by the old man's lamp, he viewed them with a detestation and disgust, which could hardly have been greater, though they had been obscene demons, marketing the corspse itself.
Scrooge is referring to the conversation between Old Joe and the charwoman, laundress, and undertaker. All three have come to Joe with the items they've stolen from Scrooge's death chamber. I'm sure Dickens meant to evoke the image of the Weird Sisters from
MacBeth with this little scene. The characters are some of the most sinister of the novel, and they reflect the callous and desparate nature of extreme poverty. Scrooge, having lived and died a miserable miser, is plundered after his demise. Ransacked for anything worth pawning. His burial shirt, bed curtains, a brooch, and the like. Metaphorically, Scrooge is reduced to the status of a pauper in his future afterlife.
I sometimes worry over what will be said about me when I die. I sometimes worry over what people are saying about me right now. I've tried to cultivate a thick skin about criticism. As a poet/writer/blogger, criticism just comes with the territory. It's necessary, something to accept and learn from. That doesn't mean it's easy to hear negative feedback. At times, I've felt like Scrooge in the passage above, horrified by what the "obscene demons" have said about my poem or story or blog post. For example, I just sent out the manuscript of my new book of poems to a poetry contest. I don't expect to win. That will not take away the sting when I receive that envelope in the mail telling me who won the competition instead of me. I will get bitter. I will say some not very nice things about the judge, Rae Armantrout, a Pulitzer Prize winning poet. That's my human nature.
I finished typing in my post last night close to 11 p.m. When I clicked the publish button, I didn't expect anyone to read my next installment of Project Memoir overnight. Well, maybe one or two people. Between 11 p.m. and 6 a.m., twelve people have read that post. Wow. That might not seem like a lot of readers, but, really, it's the electronic equivalent of having the book I wrote checked out of the library a dozen times. It's exciting that people are responding to those posts. Of course, my readers may be making fun of my writing. They may be telling their friends what a shitty job I'm doing. I may be the blogging equivalent of Rebecca Black's "Friday" music video. At the moment, however, I feel really popular, and I'm going to hold on to that feeling.
This morning, Saint Marty has been asked out to the prom twelve times. He's, like, the quarterback of the football team or something.
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| Mr. Popularity--that's me! |
