My eyes are blurry again, the way they were in the wintertime when all day was devoted to avoiding the cold, all was a distraction from the elements which only caused death. Sylvia Plath had an interesting take on winter in her poem Spinster which my friend Patrick says is misandrist. She writes:
How she longed for winter then! --
Scrupulously austere in its order
Of white and black
Ice and rock; each sentiment within border,
And heart's frosty discipline
Exact as a snowflake.
These bleary eyes as testament -- winter is not longed for.
There was the line in Fight Club dealing with Sylvia Plath which never made a great deal of sense:
"In the Tibetan philosophy, Sylvia Plath sense of the word, we're all dying." Did Sylvia Plath ever say this or feel this? Her journal and her life conveyed a sense of extreme depression but death was the outcome of her sadness. Her biographers bite and spit over interpreting her life making unlikely a person of my two-bit informed nature an expert interpreter on the subject.
But Chuck Palahniuk got it wrong like he got the Greek gods confused in another one of his novels (he overestimated Zues's loyalty to Hera - perhaps the Disney Hercules edition of Greek mythology).
Camus equated life as the only thing really important (if there is no afterlife life is all there is) and spelled out an equation for an acceptable suicide if the pain of living is greater than dying (and consequently worth giving the greatest of possessions).
The details of this information have been not much less than completely forgotten...
This article is crap.
No comments:
Post a Comment