Man alive. It was roughly two years ago that I finally decided I was allowed to have emotions, and I knew that it would be a strange, difficult road, but I never expected this. I never thought that I would become the type of person who cries during movies. And I don't even have any hormonal excuses! Just pure, unadulterated connection with a beautiful work of art.
I read The Crucible as a junior in high school. I had loved books before, but nothing had struck me to the core like Arthur Miller's words. They kept me awake at night, pondering over implication. The Salem Witch Trials, a topic I thought I had pretty well covered with my extensive Ann Rinaldi readings as a child, suddenly became a new experience, rife with the meaning of dignity and justice. That started me on my love of American writers, led me to reading more postmodern works. The Crucible defined my adult reading palate. It sharpened my sense of talented writing. And watching the movie again tonight, for the first time since high school, I was struck again.
Words are powerful. They carry weight. And the way we use them shapes us.
I know. Super deep. But let's face it, I abandoned all pride the moment I started choking up while watching justice die as girls screamed about Goody Good with the Devil. Ah well. At least I'm not crying at chick flicks. There's mercy yet.
1 comment:
1) David Tennant used Tchaikowsky's skull for Yorrick. T donated it to the Royal Shakespeare Company expressly for that purpose, but no one used it until 2008.
2) Death of a Salesman, as you may or may not remember, is my favorite. I approve of your re-reading it.
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