Stephen McGinty: Sense of sadness at the death of a stranger is a sign of our humanity

In Tokyo admirers held aloft iPads bearing the image of a flickering candle, in California tea lights were formed into the Apple logo, while an orchard-full of Granny Smiths and Pink Ladies, all with a bite out the side, were placed at a make-shift shrine at the Apple Store in London.

So why do we feel a sense of sadness at the death of someone we did not know? I ask because I was not alone in waking up on Thursday morning, switching on the computer and seeing a picture of Steve Jobs, in his ubiquitous black polo neck, blue jeans and white sneakers (I should use the word “trainers”, but “sneakers” seems more appropriate; after all, he was an all-American guy.) with that terrible numerical sentence 1955-2011 and then feeling a wave of sadness.

It was not, of course, an overwhelming emotional response. I did not break down and weep. I did not swear. The only time I’ve flicked through a newspaper and landed on the obituary page to see a face I knew was the crime writer James Crumley and then I swore. But on Thursday morning there was a sigh, a slump of the shoulders and a little leaking of breath – you know what I mean, you let out the air and so ease the tension.

On one level it makes no rational sense. Although I am typing these words on a MacBook, I cannot, as previous columns have attested, possibly be described as a computer geek. I am not a part of the cult of Apple (however, I do love the idea of the genius bar, a place to go where my ignorance will be briefly enlightened), and so I can thank him for that. But then again, surely I showed my appreciation when I handed his staff a substantial sum of money for one of his laptops?

In fact, I’m not so sure our response is really anything to do with the individual’s personal achievements. I know that may sound strange given what he has achieved, but as I pointed out to a friend, we had personal computers and musical devices before Steve Jobs, though granted they were not as fast and pretty. I think our response is more immediate and honest and need not be one stewed in admiration.

In one sense, my response to Steve Jobs is as a result of his uniform dress and annual appearances. Like Santa Clause, he generally only appeared once a year and looked the same each time. Instead of the red velvet outfit, he had his trademark black jumper, blue jeans and white trainers. Each year, we would see him, on stage at Apple’s latest announcement, wandering about, making a tightly choreographed presentation look effortless and casual. He came across as relaxed and friendly, when everything you read about him said he was anything but. Then, he started to look a little thin, and a little gaunt, and a little unwell. And people took note, they asked questions, and nobody answered because Steve Jobs wasn’t just a man, he was a corporation. If he was unwell then shares in Apple would dip. He was also a very private person who had no desire to share his ailment with the world, only his products.

So we noticed that he was sick. Each appearance he looked a little worse. There was a famous music video by Queen, in which Freddie Mercury performed for the last time, The Show Must Go On, but he looked terrible. A dead man walking. I saw that shadow pass over Steve Jobs and when I looked at him, I didn’t see a businessman of genius, an entrepreneur, just a sick man who couldn’t get better. Even with all the money at his disposal, he couldn’t get better. When Steve Jobs finally resigned as chief executive of Apple, we knew he had only weeks to live. Then a picture of him, for once, out of his usual dress and in shorts, revealed the terrible state of his health as he was escorted home by a friend. How can you not feel a sense of sadness for someone in that condition?

I do strongly believe that we all share a common humanity, that our first response is compassion. Now in the past we would not have known Steve Jobs; he would have been an inky name in a newspaper or business magazine and his passing would be recorded in the column inches of his obituary. But today, all sorts of people we do not know – by that I mean, with whom we have no direct personal connection, ie we can’t call them up – are brought into our lives. We read their tweets, we look at their pictures on the web, we ponder the state of their marriage. We have allowed them to become part of our lives. But it is inherently false. There is no connection. We are just looking through a window but we are still separated by glass, thousands of miles and a vast chasm of ignorance. They know nothing of our lives. There is a great line in Terrence Malick’s film The Thin Red Line, where a soldier talks about death. He says: “let me feel the lack”. Yet the truth is we will not feel the “lack” of Steve Jobs in our lives, for his company will continue to fill our needs. Only his friends and family will.

Some may ask the question: “What good does it do?” Why feel sad at the passing of a stranger? Well, often, there is no choice. Sadness is an emotional response, not one we choose to pull on one day, like a favourite jacket. Ah, blue, that’ll do. But it is a fair point: why do people tie bunches of flowers around a lamp-post where someone has been stabbed to death, or struck by a car? Why make the spot of their passing a shrine?

I do believe some people do it out of a need to be seen to do so. To be seen to be sympathetic, or understanding or grief stricken. People can be drawn to moments of extreme emotion, as they would by the music of a loud rock concert. The death of Diana, the Princess of Wales, was akin to this. While people felt a sadness at the sudden death of someone with whom, they had, in a way, grown up, the copious weeping and hysteria appeared artificial, like a public performance.

In my opinion, it is that first automatic reaction, one so many people felt, that is genuine. I felt the same way when I heard the news of the death of Jade Goody. Again, it was not on account of her achievements, though given her appalling background to die a multi-millionaire is surely one to be noted. No, instead it was the image of her up on a glider, a trip she had taken during her wedding when, looking down to earth, she was seized at the magnitude of what was slipping from her grip.

Maybe her death and that of Steve Jobs, serves to remind me of my own mortality, perhaps the sadness we feel is wrapped up in selfishness. There are those who would argue that sadness, like pity, is a pointless emotion if it does not drive us to act for the greater good. Yet I think we would all be the poorer if we no longer felt moved by the death of public figures. If, instead, we simply continued to process our lives, cold and mute, to the pain, suffering and demise of another, like bits in a machine.