Death of an Oscar Winner

Living alone sometimes proves easy, it is dying alone that is terrifying.

Gene Hackman and his wife. They breathed their tortured last one week apart, consumed by debilitating illnesses.

An Oscar winning actor with his last audience gone, betrayed by his own mind, lost, disoriented.

Seven nightmarish days, six surrealistic nights, he may have kept looking for her, the love of his life, wandering the monastic mausoleum that their home had become. Bodies everywhere: his wife, his dog, his own.

A growing number of us have no partner, no children, and no friends. We inhabit intimacy deserts with little to look forward to but our own solitary demise and the dubious pleasure of our own ineluctable presence.

Maybe this is why narcissism is on the rise: the gods need no companions and surmount death. We make ourselves into deities so as to avoid the solipsistic experience that being human has become, untethered from our social spaceships as we tumble head over heels, receding, drifting away into the deep space of our demented, petrified minds.

The movies Vortex by Gaspar Noe and The Father with Anthony Hopkins.

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