Reading this rather depressing personal account, I was struck by a paragraph at the end where it seems that the lessons of her life still escape the author (or else, she doesn’t want to learn it just yet):
I don’t want to look back at what was, tell stories of once upon a long time ago, of what I used to do, of the men I once knew way back when, of 1,001 rapturous nights that were and are no more—I don’t want my life to be the trashy and tragic remains of a really great party, lipstick traces on a burned-out cigarette at the bottom of a near-empty champagne goblet. Sex and sexuality, at least for me, are not some segment of life; they are the force majeure, the flood and storm and act of God that overtakes the rest. Without that part of me, I’d rather be dead. And I know all I can do right now is hold on tight to the little bit of life that’s left, cling to the edge of the skyscraper I’m slipping off of, feel my fingers slowly giving way, knowing I’m going to free-fall to a sorrowful demise.
Looking at that, I can’t help but think, “this is the world materialists want us to be in”? In that case, I echo Puddleglum’s decree:
“”Suppose this black pit of a kingdom of yours is the only world. Well, it strikes me as a pretty poor one. And that’s a funny thing, when you come to think of it. We’re just babies making up a game, if you’re right. But four babies playing a game can make a playworld which licks your real world hollow. That’s why I’m going to stand by the play-world. I’m on Aslan’s side even if there isn’t any Aslan to lead it. I’m going to live as like a Narnian as I can even if there isn’t any Narnia”” (The Silver Chair)
Well said Puddleglum. Even if it’s false, give me the life, joy, meaning and vibrancy of religion. Even if, at the end, there is nothing beyond the veil of death, I might say I had a far better time of it than most.