unending, droning, banality
I started reading a new series of books. Well, first, I started watching a new television series. I don’t want television, as a rule. Not having cable for these last 3 months has not bothered me in the least. When I do watch television, it’s on DVD and generally 3-4 seasons behind everyone else.
Since we had a huge winter storm forecasted for last week, I went to the movie rental place and got the first season of Dexter. It was a half-random choice. I had been interested in the show for a while, and nothing else in the store was particularly intriguing. Since I was planning on being snowed in, I needed something that would both entertain me for a few days and not break the bank doing so. At $5/night for new releases, my options were limited.
I lied to the clerk at the counter and created a new account to shirk my old overdue fines, and went merrily on my way.
Dexter, the TV show, is fantastic. Upon discovering the show is based on a series of books, I immediately had to investigate those. It is a universal truth that books are always better than their screen adaptations.
In this case, it seems to be holding true. Although I wouldn’t say the books are better than the TV show, because the two are related in such a small way that comparing them is largely pointless.
I believe, in this case, that the books have a serious advantage over the TV show. This is due largely to the content of the story.
Dexter, and the Dexter series of books, are about a serial killer. The funny thing about sociopaths is that you cannot tell they’re sociopaths just by looking at them. Thus, in watching the show, it is not about a sociopathic serial killer, but rather about a rather decent person who just sometimes chops people into pieces. Since he only ever kills murderers, you can scarcely even find fault with him for that.
This is not a problem in the book. Since they (at least the first two) are narrated from the first-person point of view, you are immersed completely in Dexter’s mind, and you realize exactly how unfeeling and empty he is. He is not a decent person. As he makes sure to point out frequently, he is a fake person, a facsimile, and the books don’t let you forget that.
I find Dexter a fascinating character, for many of the same reasons I imagine everyone else does.
He says, “People fake a lot of human interactions, but I feel like I fake them all, and I fake them very well. That’s my burden, I guess.”
Who hasn’t felt that way?
Of course, I’m not a sociopath. Just generally uninterested in other people. And I don’t feel, much, but I’m beginning to think that’s the human condition. Not loneliness, just nothingness. How much is everyone else faking, if I, a fairly normal and well adjusted person, am faking everything?
Nope, not a sociopath. Just empty. Like the other millions of Americans watching this show and “relating” to a serial killer. It’s actually kind of sad, if you think about it.
Dexter is asexual, which I can appreciate. It’s so rare to have asexual television characters, mostly because I think people can’t relate to them. I’ve always felt that sex ruins just about everything. Books, television, movies. You can never have a protagonist who’s a real lone wolf, they all end up fucking someone and that’s just “undignified.” Maybe I just think it’s strange because I’ve never had the inclination myself.
Anyway, I ordered all the seasons that are currently on DVD, and I’m working my way through the books, which are all quite disappointingly short. At least there’s something like 6 of them. That might keep me occupied until next week. And classes are back in session, so the unending, droning banality of life will hopefully keep me as entertained as it ever does.