I’m 20 years old. In about six months, I’ll be 21. In 20 years, I’ll be 40. I’m not sure if I’m the only one on this campus feeling the inevitability of aging and death these days, or if I am being particularly morbid, but it seems that death is all around us. Of course, recent tragic events, deaths of family members, friends’ family members, memories and anniversaries of deaths on this campus, deaths in the news, deaths in the war and freak accidents described in excruciating detail on documentary television have all been particularly prevalent as of late.

Everyday when I log on to the New York Times Web site, the first thing I look at is the obituaries. Over the years this has proven to do two drastically different things. It has propelled me into deep sorrow when brilliant people I admire and respect die; these include John Fowles, the ingenious British novelist, Susan Sontag, the great American essayist and thinker, Betty Friedan, the women’s rights activist, Arthur Miller, the award- winning playwright, Rosa Parks, civil rights activist and most recently Jean Baudrillard, post-modern philosopher and theorist of hyperreality. All of these deaths (and many, many more) that occurred between now and 2005 remind me of how many people I respect and admire will no longer grace my life with their labor, be it artistic, social or simply historical.

But on the other hand, reading the New York Times (and the Economist’s, and several others) obituaries teaches me things I never knew, and reminds me once and for all that our contemporary life, as tragic and uninformed as it often is, nevertheless is filled with brilliant and caring people. Often reading about the deaths of inventors, scientists, activists, and about what they’ve done for us all informs me about my world much more than the front page ever could. I know that we’re shelling Iraq and retiring the Chief and tightening border security. But what I’d rather know is that Dr. Tsai-Fan Yu died a few days ago, and she was the woman who basically cured gout worldwide.

See, I’m as cynical as any other liberal pseudo-intellectual. I want to hear about vapid news and remark about how vapid it is and yet read it obsessively, every day, for the sole purpose of being cynical about it.

But obituaries, it turns out, are the perfect antidote to that cycle of vapidity that is the news. They are about something terrible, something we can barely live with without the aid of religion or spirituality or denial: they are about death. But they’re celebratory. They celebrate that life is short, beautiful, productive and tragic when it ends.

It’s not supposed to be the case that reading obituaries makes me say “oh, wow, that’s really cool.” Neither is it the case that I should be so inspired by the deaths of others. It is the most excruciating pain to lose the company of a loved one. It is the most disappointing thing of all to realize your favorite writer will never write another book, your favorite performer will never sing another song, your favorite Nobel Peace Prize winner will never again foster dialogue and understanding, your favorite physicist will never discover another particle. But it is also the most wonderful thing to realize that this singular life has more potential than you realize.

Every religion, culture and society has particular ways of dealing with death. Russians, for example, get together at the dinner table after a funeral and drink and tell lively stories to celebrate the life of the recently deceased. Other cultures mourn silently. Some religions prescribe praying and hoping that the afterlife has something good to offer the dead. Some people cry, some people descend into denial, some people grieve for years and some get over it in no time. I think I’ve found my answer to the problem of inevitable death: writing, reading and maybe one day being the subject of an inspiring obituary.