Anonymous said: Have you read anything beautiful concerning suicide?
I’ve read Sexton. I’ve felt Sexton. It doesn’t get more brutally honest. It doesn’t get more complicated. It doesn’t get more simple. It doesn’t get more beautiful. She practically is Mrs. Suicide. She had it in her blood all along, she wrote to approach it; she wrote it to embody it even further. I believe she knew it too well. Others come to my mind as well but I don’t feel the need to name them. I keep associating Anne with the theme of suicide because I believe her entire writing craft circled around it but also the core of her being circled around it — she craved it, pursued it passionately, violently, I daresay, through her poems, dressed it up in her metaphors, stripped it naked and let it lie open and unmasked before her own eyes, expressed her fascination with it through keeping it manifestly real and personal; all in all I think she ultimately owned it in her small way, owned it in her extravagant way, owned it all the way in every single way and I love her for that. I love that she’s always the one, the one and only name that immediately comes to my mind when someone brings up the theme of suicide in literature. She just kept alive through writing her own death and re-writing her own death, over and over again. And it’s not vulgar. It’s raw. It’s real. It’s heartbreakingly confessional but most of all it reveal such a necessity on her part. A necessity to keep “knowing” it, then dismissing that “knowledge”, opening another dark door and diving in again; exploring it again, hunting for it at all cost, having the strength and courage to just consume her whole existence through experiencing it via her own language. Anne was a rude, unafraid, completely brilliant motherfucker but damn, she was “born to die” in her own sentences. And literally, she did so. But, as I said, the reality of it outlives the madness, outlives even the talent, the poetic work. You can just sense some sort of precious balance. The same thing which keeps her alive, kills her. It happens. And it’s contained in the bloody poems. And it’s perfect becaue it’s her. I just downright love the fact that in spite of the heaviness and triggering/controversial nature of the theme itself, this woman’s writing is not merely powerful and beautiful imo but also haunting in a way I’ll never be capable of explaining not even in my own head