For the Love of Marilyn
JBB's Bombshell Pays Her Respects to la Muse
She was alone when she went. But solidtude was her element, her constant state of being. In the early years of her life she was left unclaimed; in her later years placed on so high a pedestal that none could claim her. She was alone and she must have been in terrible pain. Why else take twenty-two sleeping pills? It’s ironic, then, that in the hours after her death so many descended on her house, crowding around her bed. If only one concerned soul had been there the night she lay down under the weight of her pain, perhaps she would have risen to see one more sun dawn on her hope. But that is one of life’s most painful ironies; we almost always conceive love in our souls only after its object has been lost forever.
In the hours, days, weeks and decades after Marilyn Monroe’s death on August 5, 1962, the world has been overcome by its love for her. Immediately following the news of her overdose, the suicide rate in Los Angeles jumped by 40% for two months. She was the world’s most photographed person, and is now the most often reproduced image in American media. Everything she touched, said, or wore is holy to us now. She is a figure of cultish worship and endless speculation in even the most sophisticated intellectual forums. We just cannot let her go.
Widely considered something of an erotic freak in life, Marilyn has become a bona fide goddess in death. It was of course the abrupt tragedy of her end that has been responsible for this ascension to immortality. Had she lived to grow old, the spell would have worn off and we would have fallen out of love with her. But she did not grow old and begin to tarnish. We will never know what could have been. The destruction of potential is an irresistible catalyst to the imagination; especially when the person of potential is as enchanting as Marilyn.
Our collective imagination has struggled to explain Marilyn’s death, the void she left has been filled with outlandish murder plots and conspiracy theories. I believe this is because we are all dealt a devastating blow of despair when a fellow human being reaches the height of fame and fortune, yet cannot justify her life to herself any longer. What hope is there for the rest of us down here on the ground if the few who have reached the very summit of modern life simply give up? Surely they must have been stuck down by the Mafia or the Kennedys or Kruschev; the alternative is too awful to face.
But perhaps it doesn’t have to be. Marilyn Monroe was a powerhouse of dynamism, charisma, and beauty. She was also a heartbroken woman. And it was her immense sadness—her unfathomable isolation—that she alchemized into luminosity. Her demons drove her relentlessly on toward greatness, perfection, impossibility. In her profound need for love and acceptance, she literally transformed herself into the American ideal of love.
As brightly as she burned, it is little wonder that she spent herself so quickly. In thirty-six years on this planet, few have given as much of themselves as she did…and then she was simply finished. So perhaps her death was not a tragedy. She came, she captivated the world, and she left us mad with desire for more. Marilyn was an unbelievable success.
If there is a tragedy in this love affair, it is that we could not induce her to stay longer. We used her up, we toyed with her, we humiliated her. We denied her very humanity in our frenzy to make love to her. And so she played along for awhile, until she was done. Now that she has gone, we cannot accept the permanence of her absence or the magnitude of her loss. That, I believe, is the moral of the story of Marilyn Monroe. Love what you have while you have it, because when it is gone, you’re going to feel its absence forever.
She was alone when she went. But solidtude was her element, her constant state of being. In the early years of her life she was left unclaimed; in her later years placed on so high a pedestal that none could claim her. She was alone and she must have been in terrible pain. Why else take twenty-two sleeping pills? It’s ironic, then, that in the hours after her death so many descended on her house, crowding around her bed. If only one concerned soul had been there the night she lay down under the weight of her pain, perhaps she would have risen to see one more sun dawn on her hope. But that is one of life’s most painful ironies; we almost always conceive love in our souls only after its object has been lost forever.In the hours, days, weeks and decades after Marilyn Monroe’s death on August 5, 1962, the world has been overcome by its love for her. Immediately following the news of her overdose, the suicide rate in Los Angeles jumped by 40% for two months. She was the world’s most photographed person, and is now the most often reproduced image in American media. Everything she touched, said, or wore is holy to us now. She is a figure of cultish worship and endless speculation in even the most sophisticated intellectual forums. We just cannot let her go.
Widely considered something of an erotic freak in life, Marilyn has become a bona fide goddess in death. It was of course the abrupt tragedy of her end that has been responsible for this ascension to immortality. Had she lived to grow old, the spell would have worn off and we would have fallen out of love with her. But she did not grow old and begin to tarnish. We will never know what could have been. The destruction of potential is an irresistible catalyst to the imagination; especially when the person of potential is as enchanting as Marilyn.
Our collective imagination has struggled to explain Marilyn’s death, the void she left has been filled with outlandish murder plots and conspiracy theories. I believe this is because we are all dealt a devastating blow of despair when a fellow human being reaches the height of fame and fortune, yet cannot justify her life to herself any longer. What hope is there for the rest of us down here on the ground if the few who have reached the very summit of modern life simply give up? Surely they must have been stuck down by the Mafia or the Kennedys or Kruschev; the alternative is too awful to face.
But perhaps it doesn’t have to be. Marilyn Monroe was a powerhouse of dynamism, charisma, and beauty. She was also a heartbroken woman. And it was her immense sadness—her unfathomable isolation—that she alchemized into luminosity. Her demons drove her relentlessly on toward greatness, perfection, impossibility. In her profound need for love and acceptance, she literally transformed herself into the American ideal of love.
As brightly as she burned, it is little wonder that she spent herself so quickly. In thirty-six years on this planet, few have given as much of themselves as she did…and then she was simply finished. So perhaps her death was not a tragedy. She came, she captivated the world, and she left us mad with desire for more. Marilyn was an unbelievable success.
If there is a tragedy in this love affair, it is that we could not induce her to stay longer. We used her up, we toyed with her, we humiliated her. We denied her very humanity in our frenzy to make love to her. And so she played along for awhile, until she was done. Now that she has gone, we cannot accept the permanence of her absence or the magnitude of her loss. That, I believe, is the moral of the story of Marilyn Monroe. Love what you have while you have it, because when it is gone, you’re going to feel its absence forever.
Labels: Bombshell
posted by oline at 6:32:00 PM
1 Comments:
i really want to quote capote here, but the bombshell has churchillbook and is thus depriving herself of my magnificant capote quotage. i do love this article though. you captured our marilyn and why we love our marilyn and what everyone else doesn't quite get about our marilyn. and you did all that without using the same old cheesy words that have always been used when talking about her. way to do the pillbox proud, bombsy.
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