As Kate mentioned regarding vampires, it may be that a need for mourning has become “culturally irrelevant” these days. Along those lines, I was actually thinking of W. G. Sebald’s essay “Campo Santo,” which discusses mourning practices in Corsica: “The doors and shutters of the house afflicted by misfortune were closed, and sometimes the whole façade was painted black. The corpse, washed and freshly dressed, or in the not uncommon case of a violent death left in its bloodstained condition, was laid out in the parlor, which was usually less a room intended for the use of the living than the domain of dead members of the family, who were known was the antichi or antinati. This was where, after the introduction of photography, which in essence, after all, is nothing but a way of making ghostly apparitions materialize by means of a very dubious magical art, the living hung pictures of their parents, grandparents, and relations either close or more distant, who although or even because they were no longer alive were regarded as the true heads of the family.” In cataloging these archaic rituals of mourning, Sebald subtly links that work to photography, suggesting that the photograph has replaced the corpse in our lives, and the act of looking at photographs (or being looked at by them) has replaced the act of mourning. He thus concludes his essay with a paraphrase of Pierre Bertraux: “To remember, to retain and to preserve, Pierre Betraux wrote of the mutation of mankind even thirty years ago, was vitally important only when population density was low, we manufactured few items, and nothing but space was present in abundance. You could not do without anyone then, even after death. In the urban societies of the late twentieth century, on the other hand, where everyone is instantly replaceable and is really superfluous from birth, we have to keep throwing ballast overboard, forgetting everything that we might otherwise remember: youth, childhood, our origins, our forebears and ancestors.”
So, then, perhaps we don’t need mourning in the way we once did, but in this regard Jonathan Shay’s “Achilles in Vietnam” becomes vitally interesting: in it Shay (a psychiatrist who works with vets and PTSD) argues that the major components of PTSD come from a lack of ritual that was once associated with war. Turning to “The Iliad” he traces the way in which soldiers were openly mourned by their comrades (for example, Achilles’ funeral games for Patroclus), and suggests that modern military training has suppressed this need for mourning into a “berserker rage,” such that when one’s comrades are killed, one is encouraged not to weep or mourn for them but to turn on the enemy that much more savagely, substituting bloody revenge for a loss. Shay calls for a recognition of the importance of mourning and the need to incorporate it into the military as a means of healing psychological wounds among those subjected to combat.
Certainly of all those in our society that we fail to mourn the loss of, none is more acute than veterans, who are given treacly tributes and nonsensical platitudes by politicians and newscasters before being swept under the rug. And to continue on Sebald’s theme of linking mourning with photography, we as a culture were even (and most pointedly) denied the images of the returning dead—as if to say, there’s no corpse here whatsoever, you can have war without the dead body, without even its ghostly resonance in the photograph.
Joe Dante’s 2005 film “Homecoming” remains to me, in this light, one of the best ideas and biggest missed opportunities along this theme: in it the Iraq war dead come back to life as zombies and plague the United States. They don’t want to eat brains; they only want to vote. The movie too quickly devolves into cheap shots which, while cathartic (the Karl Rove stand-in having his head devoured by zombies is priceless), miss I think a larger anxiety about the way in which we as a culture produce dead bodies in search of abstract symbols, and what to do with those bodies once mourning has been foreclosed to us. It may be that they’re still coming back as vampires and zombies, and that we’ve come full circle once more.
Several weeks ago National Geographic reported the discovery of a “vampire” skull, that is, the remnants of a plague victim into whose mouth a brick had been stuffed, a form of postmortem exorcism which would indicate the first remains of a suspected vampire: “as the human stomach decays, it release a dark ‘purge fluid.’ This bloodlike liquid can flow freely from a corpse’s nose and mouth, so it was apparently confused with traces of vampire victims’ blood. The fluid sometimes moistened the burial shroud near the corpse’s mouth, enough that it sagged into the jaw, creating tears in the cloth….Italian gravediggers saw these decomposing bodies with partially ‘eaten’ shrouds….” In such a situation, a brick was inserted to keep the corpse from eating and spreading the plague (other techniques included burying the body of a suspected vampire up to its chin in dirt so that it could not eat its way out of the grave).
I remember learning these various origin myths of vampires when I was in high school: I was told, for example, that malnourished people (as were plentiful in the middle ages) who were acutely iron deficient could smell it in the air, and thus when someone accidentally cut him/herself, the iron deficient might literally smell the iron in the blood and began uncontrollably to salivate—thus further perpetuating the notion of a bloodsucker. Likewise, extreme curvature of the spine (through scoliosis or similar) on a particularly hirsute individual might give the mistaken impression that this person was turning into a four-legged, furry animal—lycanthropy. In other words, the most fearsome were those who had poor eating habits.
The National Geographic story follows a similar trajectory, providing eminently plausible physical reaction that could be mistaken for something far more sinister. But there are other ways to think about the origins of vampires, which lately I’ve found a bit more compelling. Lawrence Rickels’ The Vampire Lectures (which, I hasten to point out, is nearly unreadable—stuffed with way-too-arch puns and witticisms juxtaposed uncomfortably aside theory jargon and lacking much in the way of cohesion; I could barely get through it) points out that vampires come from a rather different source: not so much the un-nourished, but the un-mourned. Prior to Stoker’s Dracula, when much of the modern mythology of vampirism was solidified into its most recognizable tropes, vampires were a common and recurrent feature of most cultures. Rickels describes any number of possible individuals who might be suspected of being vampires: suicides, for example, or widows/widowers were likely to be accused, postmortem, of vampirism, as were unbaptized children or apostates. Likewise with entire families that perished at once (say, in a house fire), or bachelors, who were particularly suspect. What Rickels points out is that in each case what unites these candidates was a lack of a surviving family or community who could properly mourn the dead. It’s this lack of mourning which makes a given corpse dangerous, and thus what casts the suspicion of vampirism on it. Thus the connection of vampires to plagues makes a certain amount of sense, since the plague would wipe out a large enough segment of the population so as to obviate mourning. Rickels writes that “vampirism not only serves the exclusion of the different (a kind of double exclusion of whatever is already on the margin), but that it also always covers the need to mourn. That the vampire is someone who was buried improperly also meant…that this special someone was not mourned properly.” Exorcism was a kind of substitute for mourning, then; the dead body demands some kind of rite, one way or another.
It would be great to rescue the vampire from the treacle of kitsch and nonsense that its suffered of late—from True Blood to Twilight to Blade ad nauseum—and at least make an attempt to reconnect to this older question of mourning, and how we treat the dead body. Since Stoker the vampire has been thought of almost exclusively in terms of a very obvious sexual metaphor—not just Dracula and Twilight but Interview with a Vampire and too many others to mention—and while that’s great as far as it goes, it seems that there’s a certain potency to marrying this anxiety about sexual contact and transference with a equally troubling anxiety about the corpse and its contagion upon the living.
(Rickels also mentions that the brothers of somnambulists were also candidates for vampirism. I’m still puzzling that one out, though I’m thinking it’s going to make a good title for the eventual work on vampires that I get around to writing.)