Why is it that so many with great artistic expression live horrible lives? I just watched a movie on the life of Emily Dickinson, and as witty and wise as her poetry was, her life was just depressing. Repenting unrequited love of a man she barely knew, and who was unaware of her affections, she spent the rest of her life a hermit. She wasted away in her room, not living at all, but creating fantastic works of poetry all the while. It was the same with Van Gogh, who cut his own ear off in his life struggle full of masterpieces. And neither of them, nor other great people like Jane Austen, were even recognized for their work until after death! To think that they worked so hard, and did not even have the consolation of living to see the fruits of their efforts displayed to the world.

How ironic it is that people with such ugly lives create such beautiful works of art. But the irony itself is a bit of an artwork, both frustrating and beautiful at the same time. Life is so much more complicated than we  take it to be as we first enter it. 

I’m not sure whether I left anyone more or less certain about the world in writing this, but it is something to think about.


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