시드니 셀던(Sidney Sheldon): "Life is like a novel, isn’t it?"

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"You don't know what can happen tomorrow. 

Life is like a novel, isn't it? It's filled with suspense. You have no idea 

what's going to happen until you turn the page."

Sidney Sheldon

The Other Side of Me 

by Sidney Sheldon

At the age of seventeen, working as a delivery boy at Afremow's drugstore in Chicago was the perfect job, because it made it possible for me to steal enough sleeping pills to commit suicide. I was not certain exactly how many pills I would need, so I arbitrarily decided on twenty, and I was careful to pocket only a few at a time so as not to arouse the suspicion of our pharmacist. I had read that whiskey and sleeping pills were a deadly combination, and I intended to mix them, to make sure I would die.

It was Saturday—the Saturday I had been waiting for. My parents would be away for the weekend and my brother, Richard, was staying at a friend's. Our apartment would be deserted, so there would be no one there to interfere with my plan. At six o'clock, the pharmacist called out, "Closing time." He had no idea how right he was. It was time to close out all the things that were wrong with my life. I knew it wasn't just me. It was the whole country.

The year was 1934, and America was going through a devastating crisis. The stock market had crashed five years before and thousands of banks had failed. Businesses were folding everywhere. More than thirteen million people had lost their jobs and were desperate. Wages had plunged to as low as a nickel an hour. A million vagabonds, including two hundred thousand children, were roaming the country. We were in the grip of a disastrous depression. Former millionaires were committing suicide, and executives were selling apples in the streets.

The most popular song was "Gloomy Sunday." I had memorized some of the lyrics:
Gloomy is Sunday
With shadows I spend it all
My heart and I
Have decided to end it all

The world was bleak, and it fit my mood perfectly. I had reached the depths of despair. I could see no rhyme or reason for my existence. I felt dislocated and lost. I was miserable and desperately longing for something that I couldn't define or name.

We lived near Lake Michigan, only a few blocks from the shore, and one night I walked down there to try to calm myself. It was a windy night, and the sky was filled with clouds. 

I looked up and said, "If there is a God, show yourself to me." 

And as I stood there staring at the sky, the clouds merged together, forming a huge face. There was a sudden flash of lightning that gave the face blazing eyes. I ran all the way home in a panic.

I lived with my family in a small, third-floor apartment in Rogers Park. The great showman Mike Todd said that he was often broke but he never felt poor. I, however, felt poor all the time because we were living in the demeaning kind of grinding poverty where, in a freezing winter, you had to keep the radiator off to save money and you learned to turn the lights out when not in use. You squeezed the last drops out of the ketchup bottle and the last dab of toothpaste out of the tube. But I was about to escape all that.

When I arrived at our dreary apartment, it was deserted. My parents had already left for the weekend and my brother had gone. There was no one to stop me from what I intended to do.

I walked into the little bedroom that Richard and I shared and I carefully removed the bag of sleeping pills I had hidden under the dresser. Next, I went into the kitchen, took a bottle of bourbon from the shelf where my father kept it, and carried it back to the bedroom. I looked at the pills and the bourbon and I wondered how long it would take for them to work. I poured some whiskey into a glass and raised it to my lips. I would not let myself think about what I was doing. I took a swallow of the whiskey, and the acrid taste of it made me choke. 

I picked up a handful of sleeping pills and started to raise them to my mouth, when a voice said, 

"What are you doing?"

I spun around, spilling some of the whiskey and dropping some of the pills. My father was standing in the bedroom doorway. He moved closer. "I didn't know you drank."

I looked at him, stunned. "I—I thought you were gone."

"I forgot something. I'll ask you again: What are you doing?" He took the glass of whiskey from my hand.

My mind was racing. "Nothing—nothing."

He was frowning. "This isn't like you, Sidney. What's wrong?" He saw the pile of sleeping pills. "My God! What's going on here? What are these?"

No plausible lie came to my mind. I said defiantly, "They're sleeping pills."

"Why?"

"I'm going to—to commit suicide."

There was a silence. Then my father said, "I had no idea you were so unhappy."

"You can't stop me, because if you stop me now I'll do it tomorrow."

He stood there, studying me. "It's your life. You can do anything you want with it." He hesitated. "If you're not in too big a hurry, why don't we go for a little walk?"

I knew exactly what he was thinking. My father was a salesman. He was going to try to talk me out of my plan, but he didn't have a chance. I knew what I was going to do. I said, "All right."

"Put on a coat. You don't want to catch cold."

The irony of that made me smile.

Five minutes later, my father and I were headed down windswept streets that were empty of pedestrians because of the freezing temperature. After a long silence, my father said, "Tell me about it, son. Why do you want to commit suicide?"

Where could I begin? How could I explain to him how lonely and trapped I felt? I desperately wanted a better life—but there was no better life for me. I wanted a wonderful future and there was no wonderful future. I had glowing daydreams, but at the end of the day, I was a delivery boy working in a drugstore.

My fantasy was to go to college, but there was no money for that. My dream had been to become a writer. I had written dozens of short stories and sent them to Story magazine, Collier's, and The Saturday Evening Post, and I had gotten back printed rejections. I had finally decided I couldn't spend the rest of my life in this suffocating misery.

My father was talking to me. ". . . and there are so many beautiful places in the world you haven't seen . . ."
I tuned him out. If he leaves tonight, I can go on with my plan.

". . . you'd love Rome . . ." If he tries to stop me now, I'll do it when he leaves. I was busy with my thoughts, barely listening to what he was saying.

"Sidney, you told me that you wanted to be a writer more than anything in the world."  He suddenly had my attention. "That was yesterday."

"What about tomorrow?"

I looked at him, puzzled. "What?"

"You don't know what can happen tomorrow. Life is like a novel, isn't it? It's filled with suspense. You have no idea what's going to happen until you turn the page."

"I know what's going to happen. Nothing."

"You don't really know that, do you? Every day is a different page, Sidney, and they can be full of surprises. You'll never know what's next until you turn the page."

I thought about that. He did have a point. Every tomorrow was like the next page of a novel.

We turned the corner and walked down a deserted street. "If you really want to commit suicide, Sidney, I understand. But I'd hate to see you close the book too soon and miss all the excitement that could happen to you on the next page—the page you're going to write."

Don't close the book too soon ... 

Was I closing it too soon? 

Something wonderful could happen tomorrow.

Either my father was a superb salesman or I wasn't fully committed to ending my life, because by the end of the next block, I had decided to postpone my plan. But I intended to keep my options open.

Copyright © 2005 by Sidney Sheldon Family Limited Partnership

ㅡ

“인생은 다음 페이지를 넘길 때까지 어떤 일이 일어날지 알 수 없는 소설과 같다.

 

너무 일찍 책을 덮어버려 다음 페이지에서 일어나게 될 온갖 즐거움을 놓쳐선 안된다." 

("You don't know what can happen tomorrow. 

Life is like a novel, isn't it? It's filled with suspense. You have no idea 

what's going to happen until you turn the page.")

Sidney Sheldon

너무나 잘 알려진 작가 시드니 셀던은 잘 알려지지 않은, 그러나 너무나 중요한 메시지 하나를 들려주고 지난 2007년 생을 마감했다. 17세 때 미국 시카고에서 약국 배달원으로 일하던 셀던은 가난에 찌들고 인생의 의미를 찾지 못해 자살을 결심하고 수면제를 조금씩 약국 주인 몰래 숨겨놓는다. 그러던 어느 날 자기방에서 위스키에 탄 수면제를 먹고 자살하려 하지만 실패로 돌아간다.

순간 아버지가 들이닥친 것이다. 이를 목격한 그의 아버지는 아무 말 하지 않고 셀던과 함께 산책을 나간다. 그리고 소설가가 되고 싶었던 아들에게 소설에 빗댄 인생관을 나직히 말해준다. 앞서 언급한 셀던의 ‘소설 인생관’은 자신의 아버지로부터 전해들은 얘기다.

셀던은 당시 아버지가 들려준 ‘소설 인생관’에 크게 감흥하고 지금까지와는 180도 다른 인생을 살아가기 시작한다. 말 그대로 ‘롤로코스터’와 같은 곡예인생을 살아가며 전세계 독자들을 흥분시킨다.

한국의 독자에게는 ‘또다른 나’로 알려져 있는 (필자는 ‘나의 이면’으로 제목을 붙였으면 하는) 그의 자서전 ‘The Other Side of Me’에서 아버지로부터 전해들은 이런 인생관을 아주 소상히 밝히고 있다.

그의 아버지가 말한 ‘소설 인생관’은 셀던의 작가적 삶에 너무나 들어맞는다. 젊은 시절 B급 시나리오 작가로 출발해 50세가 되어서야 본격적으로 베스트 셀러 소설을 써 일약 전세계적 스타작가로 자리매김했다. 그는 90세까지 살았다. 17세에 끊으려던 인생을 73년을 더 살고 지난해2007년 1월 말 마지막 인생소설 페이지를 접었다.

더 살아야 할 인생들이 매일 죽어가고 있다. 천재지변에 의한 것이라면 몰라도 자신의 의지 상실로 삶을 포기하는 것이다. 새털 같이 많은 인생의 한 페이지에서 참기 어려운 괴로움과 고통을 느끼더라도 다음 페이지에선 생각도 못한 반전이 이루어지는 데 인생의 소설책을 빨리 덮어버리는 것이다.

인생은 모른 것이라고 했다. 사실 다 알면 생의 의미는 잃는다. 자살에 대한 이렇다할 사회과학적 이론이나 정신의학적인 처방도 알고보면 특별하다랄 것도 없다. 대부분 “모든 게 잘 될 거예요, 긍정적으로 사세요”의 범주를 벗어나지 않는다.

하지만 이 말 속엔 엄청난 힘을 갖고 있다. 현재의 고통에 갇혀있지 말라는 중요한 주문이 담겨있다. 스트레스를 차라리 삶의 활력소로 치환하는 힘이 필요하다. 어차피 스트레스는 모양을 바꿔서 계속 오게 돼 있다. 경제적으로 궁핍해서, 부부간 성격차로, 직장 상하관계에서, 정반대로 갑작스럽게 돈이 많이 생겨서, 사랑하는 사람이 떠나갈까 봐, 가정의 행복한 순간이 깨질 것 같아서, 이루 말할 수 없다.

사회과학은 이런 것을 사회계급의 형태로, 심리학은 개인의 심리적 상태 또는 가족간의 문제로 규명하고 있다. 어쨌든 삶의 질감을 거칠게하는 스트레스는 피할 수 없다. 오늘 우리주변이 천국으로 변한다해도 우리의 의식과 이데올로기는 ‘천국 코드’에 맞춰져 있지 않아 괴로하는 사람이 많을 것이다. 너무 편해서 자살할 사람이 나올지 모를 일이다.

셀던과 같은 작가의 저편에 정신의학계와 사회과학계에 잘 알려진 ‘자본주의 정신과 앙티외디푸스’의 공동저자 질 들뢰즈와 펠릭스 가타리는 삶의 ‘흐름’을 제일 중요시했다. 자본주의 사회에서 ‘욕망하는 기계(사람)’가 삶의 흐름에 막히면 편집형 정신분열증으로 전락, 복잡 다기한 사회적·개인적인 문제의 원천이 된다는 것이다.

삶은 한 곳에 머무르는 정체가 아니고 움직임이어서 ‘유목 하듯’ 살아가야 하며또 그러면 소설같은 ‘매직한(magic)’ 순간이 오기 마련이란 의미다. 언뜻 어려운 듯한 이런 내용은 사실 셀던이 들려준 ‘소설 인생관’과 다르지 않다. 삶의 ‘흐름’을 끊지 말고 다음 페이지를 향해 무소의 뿔처럼 가란 것이다.

잘 알려진 얘기 하나를 덧붙인다. “지금 추락하는 비행기에 수백명의 탑승객이 있는데 여기에서 한 명만 살릴 수 있다면 당신은 누구를 선택할 것인가. 고위관료, 정치인, 과학자, 기업가 등등. 그리고 갓난 아기 중에서. 성직자는 갓난 아기를 살린다. 왜냐하면 자신의 인생을 채 살아보지 못했기 때문에.”

(자료출처: http://bloggernews.media.daum.net/news/1747136)