Lost in the sudden death of a floret classical, still-born in the bloom of youth. A feminist yes, full of burnt-over bitterness at the unfairness of being the fairer sex, but the second-hand smoke of her intellectual voracity was affecting. Could she not make even the mediocre aspire? And cause this one to re-examine his prejudices? Her Berkeley eyes were preternaturally alive as if suspecting an untimely demise - they were the eyes of cousin Tricia, though she be Irish to her Scottish. She left a blog, something at once too mundane and too intimate to be read by strangers after her death. Writings from a soul-in-progress are somehow easier to take than writings post-mortem.
It would be honest that her death would be through no fault of her own; she was far too competent for that, too Cary Grant for such a Larry-Curly-Moe end. Nay, she was a spectator when a car threw its track, a victim, in a twist of fate, of an aged white male, one of those whom she both studied and fought, loved and hated. But that is to suggest the story has ended when it has just begun. May she rest in peace.
No comments:
Post a Comment