Monday, January 7, 2013

"I used to be a happy person who had a lot of fun—even depression did not keep me from being a happy person who had a lot of fun."

Says Elizabeth Wurtzel, author of Prozac Nation. Wurtzel zoomed to literary fame after that book (I haven't read it, but admittedly may), and has reportedly been making a living all these years on her precocious writing ability. I only barely know of her and her life, but I find her to be quite irksome. The quote above sort of sums it up - if she really, truly knew what it felt like to be depressed, she would have enough respect for it not to call herself a happy person who always had a lot of fun. It is for this reason, that she's made money of the "honesty" of her emotions, but her honesty is only relative. It is whatever she thinks it is ("I have been engaged in telling the truth about my life for most of my life now, and I believe everything I say.").

And we are mesmerized by her oblivious approach to life. Oh, to be Elizabeth Wurtzel, without a care in the world, but actually has the weight of the world upon her all at the same time, and still to be so goddamned fortunate that she can call up David Boies out of the blue and have him arrange to have her apartment packed so she can get away from the psychotic landlady stalker who has threatened to slash her face. She has a fantastical ability to make herself simultaneously desirable and the most annoying person on earth. We hate her because most of us can only be one or the other, and there's generally no flip flopping back and forth. We are stuck with who we are. And so is she, but she gets to think she is everyone she thinks she is. And she gets away with it! We let her get away with it!

From her latest 5 bazillion word essay placed in New York Magazine, that rambles through brambles, and tramples through reality:
Maybe I should have been wiser. But the only way I could have was to have been a completely different person, along the way probably becoming a different writer, most likely a lousy one. I am fortunate to have been well paid for an almost pathological honesty, and the only way I am able to write that way is by being that way. It has been worth it—of course it has been—because there is a higher price attached to rare attributes than common ones. But there is a lot of good, workmanlike journalism that I could have, should have, and would have done if anyone ever thought of me. I established myself as someone much too precious. And, honest, I don’t pretend to like people I don’t and I can’t pretend to respect people who don’t deserve it. Still, my financial life might look about the same no matter what, because I chose to write about an uncompromised life in New York City in these times, and the only way to be that person is to never have it all work out.
Oh, to be so brave and vulnerable. Yeah, and have friend like David Boies. Close to the end she says:
But this is it for me. I am a free spirit. I do not know any other way to be. No one else seems to live as I do. In a world gone wrong, a pure heart is dangerous.
Dangerous, and you might have died or been a poor shlump on skid row, or a bored upper east side housewife, and yet somehow millions of people are reading your worthless essay. 

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