I was appalled to read this story this morning: Armageddon Asteroids Best Kept Secret.
Better off? Social costs? What in the name of hell is this man on? If we’re all going to die in a fiery armageddon, we deserve the right to make our peace however we see fit. What do the social costs matter, if the planet’s depopulated?
Does he think we should look neat and orderly in the moment of our death so that alien anthropologists centuries hence will think we were well-mannered? Does he imagine that somewhere up there, a British nanny will cluck approvingly at the orderly fashion in which we accepted extinction?
If we’re gonna collectively buy the farm, I want it to be in the most human way possible. Laughing, weeping, raging, loving. I want drama, I want resolution, I want the fire from the sky to find us all deeply, completely engaged, aware. If the end of the whole human race isn’t poetry, then it’s all been worthless.
Whatever horrors might occur in the last hours, whatever dramas might play out in the knowledge of certain death, I much prefer dying in the knowledge of what’s coming. To perish, like the dinosaurs, with nothing but “Hey, look, bright light…” in my mind is abhorrent to me.
Wouldn’t you rather know?