Tragedy and Comedy

I don't usually feel deeply affected by the news of the passing of celebrities or other public figures. When the news pops up on Facebook - which is where I usually first come across it - I might feel, if I enjoyed their work, regretful that they will produce no more. Often, especially if I didn't have any great interest in them in life, any emotion I will have will be for their families; when Peaches Geldof died, it was Bob Geldof's simple, wrenching statement that "We are beyond pain" that gave me pause. But I often feel awkward at the idea of public grief for a complete stranger. I think this dates back to when my beloved Nana died in very close proximity to the Queen Mother. Young as I was, I vividly recall feeling almost angry at the tears shed on television for the Queen Mum by people who had never known her, barely days apart from my shedding my own tears at the funeral of a grandmother I knew and loved.

But this morning, I woke up to the news of the death of Robin Williams, and, for the first time at the death of a celebrity I never knew, I feel genuinely floored. I must have watched Mrs Doubtfire a dozen times over my childhood. One Christmas, I think, my family watched and recorded Hook, but then someone went and recorded over the first hour or so of the film. But the second half of that film I also watched over and over again. I remember both films arousing deep feelings in me. They were both, of course, exceedingly funny, but they both invoke great pathos - for example in the shuddering, humiliating moment in which 'Mrs Doubtfire' is unmasked, and in the sheer idea of Peter Pan as an adult grown. I noticed a comment on Facebook this morning which said that Williams' films would always be tinged with sadness from now on. But, I think they always were. But comedy tinged with sadness is true to life, and therefore a very special thing. And I feel real sadness that a man who touched on that truth is gone.

And then there is the manner of his passing. According to news reports nothing is confirmed, but it seems likely that his death was suicide. I have felt... oddly pleased, though that is not the right word, to see many people saying that he "died of depression". To me that seems a far more accurate, and empathetic, description of a life ended in the throes of depression. It was not so long ago that Christians who committed suicide were denied burial in holy ground for the blasphemy of taking a God-give life. But to speak of someone dying of depression is to express an understanding that they suffered from, and succumbed to, a terrible illness, even if it was not one of the flesh. There should be no more blame, and no less sympathy, attached to that person than there should be to someone who died of a physical illness.

But, there is blame somewhere. I feel so confused and angry that a man with wealth and fame and a loving family still died of depression, still could not be saved from his illness. I think of Robin Williams and I think of the people I know who suffer from the same illness, and I want to know where they would get help if they truly needed it. I feel angry that society is still only slowly moving towards an appreciation of mental illness as a genuine, often treatable affliction, and not something to be ashamed of, to not ask help for if you suffer from it. And I feel angry with depression, for the strength it has and the destruction it wields. Perhaps all the public understanding of mental illness in the world could not save some sufferers from dying of it.

So, for the first time ever, I have cried to hear of the death of a celebrity who I never knew, apart from through his comedy. The thought that a person who, indirectly, made my childhood self laugh and stop and think is gone is bad enough. But the thought that such a person died of an illness that left him with so little joy, and so little compassion for himself that there was only one thing he could do to escape it... that is what makes me cry. 

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A Postscript.

As I hope this essay expresses, everyone needs help sometimes, and there is no shame at all in that. Call a friend, call a family member, call the Samaritans (08457 909090). Do not suffer in silence. 

The sea, the sea

St Andrews Cathedral, with Rule's Tower in the
foreground.

My first thought for an opening sentence for this blog post was "there are many consolations for living and studying where I do", but on reflection that struck me as being rather more negative than I intended. I think I am happier, both domestically and academically, living in Crail and studying in St Andrews than I ever have been before. So perhaps I shall say instead, there are some unexpected moments that provide sudden and lovely illumination to a daily life that is already pretty contended.

Mr S and I experienced one such moment a few days ago, whilst at a loose end due to the later-than-usual opening of the university library that day. Fortunately, St Andrews is a pretty lovely place to wander around - I could probably spend hours wending through the gravestones in the old cathedral site, absorbing hundreds of long-gone names, all in the skeletal shadow of the ruins that provide the archetypal image of the St Andrews skyline. That day, however, we decided to wander down past the castle to watch the waves rolling in on the (imaginatively-named) Castle Sands. However, the sight of a great flurry of waves breaking on the pier down by East Sands drew us further along the coastline, and down onto that narrow stone spur, which at high tide on a blustery day looked almost impossibly fragile against the great weight of the sea.

We just stood and watched. We didn't venture too far out - unlike the people standing at the very end of the pier, we were none to keen to experience the sensation of the sea dumping an entire wave's-worth of water upon our heads, as it did repeatedly during the time we watched. The waves crashing against the terminus of the pier seemed to almost fling themselves up its sides, creating a great plume of water which was then caught by the wind, fully dowsing the outcrop and any foolish enough to stand upon it. Even the point at which we had planted ourselves, barely a third of the way along the pier, seemed to affront the waves so much that every fourth or fifth surge made a valiant attempt to reach us, with water roaring up and onto the pier-top a metre further down the narrow way.

Looking towards St Andrews Castle. I didn't even try to capture
the sensation of looking out from the pier - concerns about the
bad combination of water and technology aside.

Although occasionally distracted by the rushing water that seemed so keen to make our close acquaintance, we spent most of the time gazing further out to sea, watching the hypnotic movement of the water, as smooth, concave rifts grew higher and higher - quite incredibly high - until they broke into a frothing and raging crest. And then there were the cross-currents, as waves which redounded against the pier surged back to meet their fellows at right angles, causing mountains of spray to fly up where they collided with one another. And then there was the noise - booming, crashing, whooshing. It was like watching fireworks as a very small child: every huge wave was a new surprise, every plume against the pier a reason to exclaim in sheer joyful surprise.

One of the concepts which I know I'm going to have to confront and analyse in my work on early modern reactions to mountains is that of 'the Sublime' - the idea that there is a certain type of aesthetic response to certain aspects of nature, in which the sight of something great but slightly terrifying or horrifying inspires a type of overwhelming awe. I have problems with the idea of using the category to judge past reactions to nature, but I'm also not sure I could find another word to describe the feeling of standing, tremulous and fixed, upon a man-made outcrop of rock, and staring out at a display of the roiling power and energy of the sea. It was frightening - every one of those waves would have swallowed me whole had I been standing beneath them - but also thrilling, and joy-inspiring. It was, in a word, sublime.

Being a PhD student can, I am told, sometimes be a hard slog. I am fortunate that I have not yet encountered the moment in my research where I feel that sheer exhaustion with my own topic and research. But, when I do, I will try to remember to prescribe myself a moment or two upon the pier, on a wild and windy day, breathing in the breath-taking. Because there is something about the sublime that energises the spirit.