"The Boy Who Fell Out Of the Sky"

This book review about Dave Doorstein, the Lockerbie passenger, by his brother Ken resonates in some strange way with my growing awareness that our private lives have now become a commodity. Everything we do has 'story' potential. We are like termites that consume and consume until the house collapses. Why can't we just leave a sad story where it is? This appetite for the unhealthy inner lives of people reveals something about our own health. What is it that makes us lean closer to hear a conversation meant to be a private matter? Why do want to know about the secret lives of public figures? Why does the evening news focus on fires, murder, robberies, rape, etc. Is it to humble us or create discomfort? If we turned from all of this and saw the life around us, would we know ourselves and the world we live in better?