I'd never heard of Alix Strauss before, but when I got the invitation to hear her read from her new book at the Bodies exhibit here in Manhattan I couldn't turn it down.

Sure, I wasn't exactly curious about the book -- Death Becomes Them: Unearthing the Suicides of the Brilliant, the Famous, and the Notorious -- but I've always had a grisly longing to see those plastinated bodies.

Plus, I like invitations, because occasionally they mean men in suits offering me drinks and hors d'oeuvres.

The Bodies general manager introduced Alix by saying she's made frequent appearances on the Today Show or the Early Show or the equivalent, and she certainly had the personality for it. I'm insanely jealous: when I read in public, I stutter, my hands shake, I don't move my eyes from the text. Alix chats and charms and veers fascinatingly off-topic for hours at a time. My only quibble was her running commentary, which started out funny but wore thin. "Yes, we had thousands of suicides to choose from," she said (paraphrased). "We had to cut out -- oops! bad choice of words, considering where we are -- quite a few interesting characters. We were fortunate -- whoops! not appropriate! -- to come up with a very healthy -- whoa! definitely wrong! -- few."

After the thirtieth time, I was like KNOCK OFF THE CRITIQUE AND FINISH A FREAKIN' THOUGHT.

Her talk was absolutely fascinating for awhile. I think we're all curious about how people spend their last few days before killing themselves. It's an odd mixture of the banal and the desperate. "To do: Walk the dog. Put the cake in the fridge. Buy a strong, sturdy rope." After an hour or so, though, your defenses are worn away and suicide starts sounding reasonable, or inevitable. All you can think about is going home, wrapping yourself in a warm blanket, and watching David Letterman with your head stuck inside the stove.

As for the book itself, it seems a trifle overwritten. When Anne Sexton offed herself, Alix said she'd "waited a lifetime for this moment." Well, except a minute earlier she'd said Anne had attempted suicide nine times, which means people have waited longer for U2 to tour. I wasn't surprised to see a reviewer on Amazon impugning the book's credibility.

In a gruesome mood I wandered over to the Bodies display. You know, the human body is a gorgeous, amazing, spectacular thing. When it's cut apart, preserved in plastic, and then stuck back together, though -- really, it's not so good. Windows are cut into muscle with all the accuracy of a circular saw. Arteries and veins dangle off them, maybe from years of dusting, making them look like human kites. They're not clean, not sterile, unimpressive. You start thinking they hired some dude to do this work based on his skill at building a birdhouse.

Grotesquely, eyes and noses and lips have been stuck onto the flayed faces, like Hannibal Lecter playing Mr. Potato Head. The features are unmistakably Chinese, reminding us that these could be political prisoners who were killed in custody and their bodies sold.

Taken together with the talk, I've had enough.

I come to a sad realization: truly, this exhibit exists only to shock. The poses are banal, the accompanying commentary trivial. In terms of education, it's a distant third place to any high school anatomy textbook.

I've learned that the keratin in skin makes it waterproof. I've seen that smoking is bad. I've read that "The average male will excrete 12,000 gallons of urine in his lifetime, which is enough to fill a small swimming pool."

I'm so depressed I'm thinking maybe I'll head to that swimming pool and wait.

Instead I try to be positive. This display has significantly lowered my standards! I don't need a rich man, or a famous man, or a man who cloaks himself in mystery. I go to a bar, find a dude with a face, and remind myself exactly What Glories God Hath Wrought.