I just finished reading William Landay's novel, Defending Jacob. It's the first novel I've read that deals with the so called "Murder Gene."
While, to my knowledge, it's not yet a legal defense here in the United States, some scientists have identified five genes linked to violent behavior.
Defending Jacob was one of those novels I had difficulty putting down. I read it in three days - and that's almost a record for me. (I can't sit and do anything for long.) But then, after a while, the more I read, the more frustrated I became. But I thought the ending would make it all worthwhile. Not so. The ending, for me, went from frustrating to maddening.
First, from the get-go, I could not understand how these two intelligent, loving parents could be so clueless about their kid. Then I couldn't understand how they could be such irresponsible enablers.
But the book has made me think. And isn't that the big purpose of good fiction?
Here's what I'm thinking. Am I responsible for my decisions - for how I live my life? Or am I a total slave to my internal make up? I understand that it's complicated. After a lifetime of self discovery, I could, if I wanted to, come up with a pretty good case for why I should be kind of screwed up. I think most of us could.
When the life story of Florida's celebrated first female serial killer, Aileen Warmus, was made public a few years back, I had great sympathy for her but I had no doubt that she needed to be held responsible for what she did.
I don't believe that "The murder gene made me do it" is a good excuse. For every mean, destructive person in the world there are others - who have similar genes - who've lived responsible, life affirming lives.
I believe we always have choices. I believe we all have an opportunity for "do overs."
I believe in the changed life.
***
While, to my knowledge, it's not yet a legal defense here in the United States, some scientists have identified five genes linked to violent behavior.
Defending Jacob was one of those novels I had difficulty putting down. I read it in three days - and that's almost a record for me. (I can't sit and do anything for long.) But then, after a while, the more I read, the more frustrated I became. But I thought the ending would make it all worthwhile. Not so. The ending, for me, went from frustrating to maddening.
First, from the get-go, I could not understand how these two intelligent, loving parents could be so clueless about their kid. Then I couldn't understand how they could be such irresponsible enablers.
But the book has made me think. And isn't that the big purpose of good fiction?
Here's what I'm thinking. Am I responsible for my decisions - for how I live my life? Or am I a total slave to my internal make up? I understand that it's complicated. After a lifetime of self discovery, I could, if I wanted to, come up with a pretty good case for why I should be kind of screwed up. I think most of us could.
When the life story of Florida's celebrated first female serial killer, Aileen Warmus, was made public a few years back, I had great sympathy for her but I had no doubt that she needed to be held responsible for what she did.
I don't believe that "The murder gene made me do it" is a good excuse. For every mean, destructive person in the world there are others - who have similar genes - who've lived responsible, life affirming lives.
I believe we always have choices. I believe we all have an opportunity for "do overs."
I believe in the changed life.
***
