At the campus to the south, where I sojourn on Tuesdays and Thursdays, there is a stall in the women's room that has "Sylvia Plath" written on the inside of the door, in a lovely red scroll. I have always been surprised at the fascination young people have for other young people who died young. My daughter had a poster of Jim Morrison on her bedroom wall, and also was very enamored of Ms. Plath. There is something romantic about this interest. It is all dark and mysterious, and I think they find suffering noble. Of course, us old folks know it is just misery, and, having experienced it up close and personal, may understand a troubled individual like Ms. Plath offing herself. Nothing noble about it, though. There were children, you know. Life is not easy. It hands us lots of awful stuff. And, if one is too fragile, it is easy to be broken by it. Doesn't make Jim Morrison, or James Dean, or Janis Joplin, or Marilyn Monroe, a hero/heroine. Frankly, it makes them weaker than those of us who muddle through the pain, and persevere. Kind of makes me sad I didn't pursue a doctorate in psychology, because this morbid fascination that the young people have with premature death would make a dandy thesis, don't you think? Certainly has me bamboozled.
1 comment:
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Have a nice day.
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