Starry, Starry Night...
My mother and I just found out two days ago that the song Starry, Starry Night (Vincent) was composed in remembrance of Vincent Van Gogh. Groban said so in his concert. It makes sense, then, for the song tells about palettes and hues and paints.
I like impressionism. And Van Gogh's paintings do impress me. I can actually feel the frustration and melancholic thoughts in his works. For he was not famous at all when he was alive. He had to die first before people started acknowledging him as a talented painter.
It saddens me. Some people have to die first before they can be famous.
Sylvia Plath was a reputable poetess and writer. She was well-known when she was alive, but not quite. After she committed suicide, thanks to her husband's unfaithfulness, she became extremely famous. Ironically her husband, Ted Hughes (also a poet) got rich because of her writings.
There's also Emily Dickinson. After her death her relative found hundreds (maybe even thousands?) of her poems tucked safely in her room. They were published and, of course, she became famous. Her poems appear to be simple, childlike, and sweet, yet they are actually deep.
Plath pleaded for someone to "mouth her". She has many people mouthing her, me included. But who'll mouth me? Do I have to die first? Will I be content living to the fullest to the old age, without people praising and loving my works? Will I die happily, knowing my writings have inspired no one? Morbid thoughts... maybe that's what you get after reading too much of Edgar Allan Poe's and Edogawa Rampo's works.