Bella Morte

             Every day I like to think on a single phrase and why it has been spoken. Bella Morte means Beautiful death, but is death really beautiful? I once read a quote that there was nothing so heartbreakingly beautiful as the untimely death of a lovely lady. Over and over again we find this to be true in poetry, plays, music, the occult and even mental illness. We try to love and communicate with the dead in that may be unhealthy, but oftentimes poetic and up for being romanticized.  

            Necromancy is a form of divination in which people try to invoke the spirit of the deceased loved one, often for the purposes of communication. Often times this has been classified as black magic and is often the subject of interest in movies such as The Chronicles of Riddick. Throughout the ages people have sought ways, be it through séances and other means, to communicate with the dead or even try to bring them back to life. A good example of this might be found in the movie Beetlejuice, when the new family tries to bring the couple back, bodily, from the dead through a séance.

            Sometimes ones passion for the dead goes beyond wanting to see their loved one alive once more. There is a mental illness known as necrophilia in which a person becomes aroused by the dead and often give into the temptation and engages in sex with cadavers. Most of us see this as a sick perversion and I, myself, have yet been able to truly sympathize with this particular disorder. There is a movie called “Kissed” which centers around a necrophiliac that neither condemns the character or approves of her actions. However, as artfully done as the movie was, I could only get halfway through before I turned it off.

            In my opinion, necrophilia is not something that should be romanticized in any way, shape, or form. In this same token, necromancy may not be the best approach either. We have a tendency to want to make light of these subjects, romanticize them, and make death to seem glorious and beautiful, but is it? Is it really? Maybe for some it is. It certainly bares contemplation. I do not believe death should be ugly and in the end I think, if the person is at peace than there can be a certain beauty to it, but to put twists on disorders or other things which could be harmful for the living and call it beautiful might well be a folly. I leave you now with a song and a poem. Enjoy. 

The Dying Girl

(19th Century)

From a Munster vale they brought her,

From the pure and balmy air;

An Ormond peasant’s daughter,

With blue eyes and golden hair.

They brought her to the city

And she faded slowly there-

Comsumption has no pity

For blue eyes and golden hair.

When I saw her first reclining

Her lips were mov’d in prayer,

And the setting sun was shining

On her loosen’d golden hair.

When our kindly glances met her,

Deadly brilliant was her eye;

And she said that she was better,

While she knew that she must die.

She speaks of Munster valleys,

The pattern, dance, and fair,

And her thin hand feebly dallies

With her scattered golden hair.

When silently we listen’d

To her breath with quiet care,

Her eyes with wonder glisten’d,

And she asked us, “What was there?”

The poor thing smiled to as it,

And her pretty mouth laid bare,

Like gems within a casket,

A string of pearlets rare.

We said that we were trying

By the gushing of her blood

And the time she took in sighing

To know if she were good.

Well, she smil’d and chatted gaily,

Though we saw in mute despair

The hectic brighter daily

And the death-dew on her hair.

And oft her wasted fingers

Beating time upon the bed:

O’er some old tune she lingers,

And she bows her golden head.

At length the harp is broken;

And the spirit in its strings,

At the last decree is spoken,

To its source exulting springs.

Descending swiftly from the skies

Her guardian angel came,

He struck God’s lightning from her eyes,

And bore Him back the flame.

Before the sun had risen

Through the lark-loved morning air,

Her young soul left its prison,

Undefiled by sin or care.

I stood beside the couch in tears

Where pale and calm she slept,

And though I’ve gazed on death for years,

I blush not that I wept.

I check’d with effort pity’s sighs

And left the matron there,

To close the curtains of her eyes

And bind her golden hair.

Written by Richard D’Alton