More often than not, I find myself stunned by the autobiographies of people. An autobiography, is one's perception and view about self. An autobiography fascinates me, how one elaborates only those areas which seem important to oneself, how one portrays himself, how one manages to pen down the struggles, the memories, the humor, the mistakes, without being weighed down by embarrassment or self-pride.
That is the beauty of autobiographies. Nobody questions them. A few may, but a few years down the lane, it is what it is. Maybe it doesn't near even half the truth of what actually happened, but the script lives on. A laugh in the sea of sadness. Maybe, the autobiographies only portray the 'laugh' and eliminate the rest of the sea. Safe enough.
Who would want to be categorized as a depressed poet/poetess? Rather highlight only the happy part of life and gain audiences, right? Don't all of us want to be safe? Don't all of us want to be told how optimistic and brilliant we are? We all want to be famous and inspiring and happy, don't we? And when we want all of that, we're no longer free. We dwell on the destination and ruin the journey. Likewise, people(read writers) emphasize the happy part, edit the major changes and delete the actual story behind.
Yet again, a different opinion. I find the journals, autobiographies, biographies of people who are able to pen down their sadness, their frustration, their struggles, their failed attempts, their lost hopes, their suicidal attempts fascinating. Moreover, it takes guts to write about such instances. The guts to present the truth, the guts to be criticized, the guts to accept. Also, this doesn't mean I'm an admirer of sadistic stories or events. What if poets write sad poems and stories? They are able to bring out the abhorrent lump of their lives in most beautiful a form. Isn't that something to be applauded and honoured for? Any fool can know, the point is to understand.
Consider Sylvia Plath as an example. I can't help myself analogizing her in whatsoever a topic, but when you admire a personality so deeply, this is what happens. Anyway, back to the point before I dawdle away to my admiration towards her. Right from her childhood she was consummated with woebegone trauma, she tried to kill herself innumerable number of times, even though she was one of the most successful woman of her time, having a full-bright scholarship to study literature in London and write and write and write. She wasn't a coward, she wasn't a depressed-dark or bipolar diagnosed woman, rather she was a courageous woman who knew what she wanted, who stood confidently and fought amongst the odds, who did no harm to whomsoever, and won hearts with her metaphors. What had she gained by Ted leaving her, but her voice? What could she do now, but listen to her own voice, her words so rusty of being kept to herself that she had to pour herself out? Her writing was lifting off the page. Like a risen soul. A beautiful soul that was suffocated not by the silence of silence, instead her own silence.
Likewise, behind every action is an untold story, more-so-even, an unnoticed emotion, an unfound truth. To be able to cycle away from cities full of empty people is overwhelmingly amazing. To be thumped down by the routine is sadder a death than any tragic suicidal event. Thus, a few great souls chose the latter. That is how (auto)biographies should be. Clear transparencies, if not for the truth, what use is of great fictitious stories, that one can never achieve in reality?
The next time you criticize someone or categorize their writing under gloomy, sad, dark, what-so-ever poet/poetess, hold on, ask yourself, do you have the guts to pen down all about yourself without condensing the truth? If the answer isn't in the affirmative, you ought to credit those who could.
'In the deepest and most important matters, we are unspeakably alone.', said Rainer Maria Rilke. And when you're alone, words flow out like water from a dam. To accept and purge the pain, is to excel. Not depression but outrageous courage.
© Deekshita Srinivas. 2014.
That is the beauty of autobiographies. Nobody questions them. A few may, but a few years down the lane, it is what it is. Maybe it doesn't near even half the truth of what actually happened, but the script lives on. A laugh in the sea of sadness. Maybe, the autobiographies only portray the 'laugh' and eliminate the rest of the sea. Safe enough.
Who would want to be categorized as a depressed poet/poetess? Rather highlight only the happy part of life and gain audiences, right? Don't all of us want to be safe? Don't all of us want to be told how optimistic and brilliant we are? We all want to be famous and inspiring and happy, don't we? And when we want all of that, we're no longer free. We dwell on the destination and ruin the journey. Likewise, people(read writers) emphasize the happy part, edit the major changes and delete the actual story behind.
Yet again, a different opinion. I find the journals, autobiographies, biographies of people who are able to pen down their sadness, their frustration, their struggles, their failed attempts, their lost hopes, their suicidal attempts fascinating. Moreover, it takes guts to write about such instances. The guts to present the truth, the guts to be criticized, the guts to accept. Also, this doesn't mean I'm an admirer of sadistic stories or events. What if poets write sad poems and stories? They are able to bring out the abhorrent lump of their lives in most beautiful a form. Isn't that something to be applauded and honoured for? Any fool can know, the point is to understand.
Consider Sylvia Plath as an example. I can't help myself analogizing her in whatsoever a topic, but when you admire a personality so deeply, this is what happens. Anyway, back to the point before I dawdle away to my admiration towards her. Right from her childhood she was consummated with woebegone trauma, she tried to kill herself innumerable number of times, even though she was one of the most successful woman of her time, having a full-bright scholarship to study literature in London and write and write and write. She wasn't a coward, she wasn't a depressed-dark or bipolar diagnosed woman, rather she was a courageous woman who knew what she wanted, who stood confidently and fought amongst the odds, who did no harm to whomsoever, and won hearts with her metaphors. What had she gained by Ted leaving her, but her voice? What could she do now, but listen to her own voice, her words so rusty of being kept to herself that she had to pour herself out? Her writing was lifting off the page. Like a risen soul. A beautiful soul that was suffocated not by the silence of silence, instead her own silence.
Likewise, behind every action is an untold story, more-so-even, an unnoticed emotion, an unfound truth. To be able to cycle away from cities full of empty people is overwhelmingly amazing. To be thumped down by the routine is sadder a death than any tragic suicidal event. Thus, a few great souls chose the latter. That is how (auto)biographies should be. Clear transparencies, if not for the truth, what use is of great fictitious stories, that one can never achieve in reality?
The next time you criticize someone or categorize their writing under gloomy, sad, dark, what-so-ever poet/poetess, hold on, ask yourself, do you have the guts to pen down all about yourself without condensing the truth? If the answer isn't in the affirmative, you ought to credit those who could.
'In the deepest and most important matters, we are unspeakably alone.', said Rainer Maria Rilke. And when you're alone, words flow out like water from a dam. To accept and purge the pain, is to excel. Not depression but outrageous courage.
© Deekshita Srinivas. 2014.
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