Whenever there is a wake in a soap opera or an American movie from the 1950s, the same woman—the angel of death, perhaps—appears in the front row of the funeral parlor. Her basic embodiment is Caucasian, old, and plump; her costume, a black pillbox hat and black driving gloves; her prop, effusive tears that erode the fortifications of mascara around her eyes. As she grieves loudly and sloppily,
... [Show full abstract] she will occasionally exclaim: "Oh, how terrible! How cruel and inconceivable! What a tragedy!" Though her protestations are otherwise curtailed by sighs and sobs, the word "tragedy" lingers on her tongue for an extra, uncomfortable instant. It is as if time itself slows to allow her to utter the word with its full force. Such a woman would never be tolerated at a service for a person who had once been genuinely alive. Family and friends in attendance would begin sus- piciously asking one another: "Who is she? How did she know the deceased?" In the melodrama, however, the other characters take little notice of her, not that it matters. She is not speaking either for them or to them. She is not, in fact, even a mourner at all. She is a funhouse-mirror reflection of the viewer's own feelings about the dead, a melo-dramatized embodiment of a removed sense of grief. Aristotle explained that tragedy "is an imitation of a serious and com- plete action of some magnitude" (Bambrough 471). In other words, some- thing that is tragic is always theatric and never real; it is often affecting, but never permanent. Thus, despite popular usage of the word, tragedy suggests not closeness and empathy, but distance and sympathy. When someone we love dies, we rarely have the presence of mind to declare the event anything, much less something as weighty as "tragic." Such an assessment requires time and space to process, to replay the events in the theater of our minds, to hard- en emotion into logic like water into ice.