Subject: Re: father, dear father, come home with me now ....
From: Cecilia Baader (ceciliaann@hotmail.com)
Date: Mon Sep 04 2000 - 00:39:48 GMT
Scottie B. wrote:
> It goes without saying that I do NOT share Cecilia's
> protective instincts. It seems to me ludicrous for a man
> who has made many millions parading in public his own
> contrivances to complain when his daughter gets a little
> of her own back - a daughter whose father, by the looks
> of things, managed to screw up pretty comprehensively.
Okay, sure. Yes. Young Peggy has every right to "get a little of her own
back" from a father who has managed to screw her up pretty comprehensively.
If that is what it takes for her to come to terms with her early life, more
power to her.
I just don't want to know. Does that make me myopic? Perhaps. But I keep
thinking that the direction that the world is going is the wrong one. Sure,
Princess Diana's bodyguard had every right to tell his version of an already
over-told story. And Dennis Rodman can tell us all about how he was Bad as I
Wanna Be with Madonna. And Peggy Salinger has every right to reveal her
all.
But I'm wholly uninterested in what sort of bathrobe he wears and whether he
prefers his Cheerios with milk or with urine.
I suppose that it's just something in me that is reacting against the
general trend in society these days towards too much information. People
argue that when you publish, you give up your right to the same amount of
privacy as the rest of us.
Perhaps. But perhaps not.
Perhaps, when you publish, you've shown the world enough of yourself. And
perhaps the world should leave you the hell alone.
There's a huge number of people who write books every year. And there's
piles and piles of forgotten tomes littering library shelves everywhere.
Writing does not automatically preclude privacy; many writers don't see
much difference in their lives once the book lands on a shelf somewhere.
We've just happened upon a fellow who wrote a book that defined a
generation. Several generations. And he wants to be left alone.
So sure, let Peggy write her book. And will, you're certainly free to enjoy
the first forty, nay, the first four hundred pages of it. I just don't like
it. It leaves a bad taste in my mouth. And I've only been drinking coffee.
(Oh, and sometimes tea.)
Regards,
Cecilia.
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