The heart-breaking thing about intelligence and
indescribable creativity that so many writers hold are the perils that follow.
The alcoholism, the depression, the feeling of futility. Why is it that people
are only appreciated in death? I think it stems from jealousy. People love to
put others down so that they don’t advance, don’t outgrow. In death, you are
static. And they love it.
Reading gives so many people the ability to live, to feel.
Escapism has always been important and crucial to human life and when people
can connect to someone’s ideas so deeply, beauty is found; inspiration.
Roland Barthes wrote that the minute a text is read, the
author dies; they no longer have any creative control over the text, but the
reader is safe in the knowledge that they are alive. When the author physically
dies, a real pain is felt. Even though the average person’s chance is minimal,
the opportunity to thank that author for the escape, the rush of feelings, the
worlds they created, the fact that they aren’t alive to be appreciated is a
painful one. And that, I think, is the real death of the author.
Reading fills you up if you read the right things, it
elevates you, it inspires and it makes you more of a person. But what is 'right' will always be an open discussion.
Literature is the greatest teacher.
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