Capa: (https://pin.it/5QShobN )
Why do we have such fascination for sad people? Their lives, their work, their thoughts and the way they saw the world before it ended for them? What kind of aura surround these people? Why do we feel extreme connection when we read their poetry translating that this world was unbearable for them? Maybe the answer is in our own universe. Its strangeness, uniqueness and melancholy held inside. Is it possible to point a finger on what do women like Virginia Woolf, Sylvia Plath, Clarice Lispector or even Joan Didion have in common? Is it just the depressive condition that unite them and their readers? That make us see the world in a particular shade of blue. Is it literature itself that drives us crazy or is it what it takes to be a writer? Do we have the guts to see ourselves through the mirror in the words marked in ink? If we are what we write, then I don’t really want to know myself.
Por Camila Machado
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