Dualities too Extreme...

Lord Byron knew the truth and he expressed it so eloquently. " We of the craft are all crazy. Some are affected by gaiety, others by melancholy, but all are more or less touched " I first heard this while watching the movie, "Touched With Fire." It was an instant, emotional revelation because it gave me the knowledge as to why I feel such a strange bond with poets long dead. Now, I am by no means a psychologist, not a therapist, nor priest. I cannot fathom the intricacies of the human condition- how the good and the vile the lofty and debased can inhabit the same person... Though we are all multidimensional - sometimes things are, severe and uncanny - far too contradictory. I know that we are made in God's image... beings created just a little below angels... But even the best among us fight our demons. I don't necessarily refer to a diagnosable disorder, I am aware of bipolar of the "Sylvia Plath effect." But, I ponder instead, 2 poets in particular - Ady Endre and Radnoti Miklos... I, the daughter of Hungarian refugees am very familiar with these poets- their biographies the information in textbooks, their phenomenal poetry. And with Radnoti, especially, I feel a connection that is spiritual almost. If we had known one another, I believe, we would have been friends - his thoughts so mirrored my own. But then came shock- unexpected, unsettling. I saw a YouTube documentary - not sensationalist gossip, not rumor - but things that were confirmed by Radnoti's own widow- through interviews, and a recently published journal. Now, I don't consider myself overly sensitive so I cannot understand why this hit me so hard. Why would I even care as to the details of someone's personal life, someone dead, 20 years before my birth, someone who wasn't even a family member? It turns out that Radnoti, who wrote his wife Fanni, the tenderest love poems- who seemingly worshipped her- ( at least on the page.) cruelly betrayed her- flauntingly, unrepentantly, brazenly - with her own best friend- what more, he sent her to abortionists 5 times! As a woman with my own history - with multiple miscarriages, scorned, knowing betrayal, I actually felt physically ill But the shock has worn off, I've had time to reason- to contemplate the terror of a Jew during 1940s Hungary... And I know that Radnoti had a premonition of death, he wrote of how it would come to him, with eerie accuracy. He was always haunted by death because it was his own birth that killed his mother and twin brother. Now, I am not so naive as to believe that talent, genius even, deserves a pedestal... but Radnoti's poetry still gives me goosebumps and if I were a contemporary I'd still want us to be friends. And I also have tremendous respect, awe, even for Fanni's memory, poor, sweet, beautiful woman - it is incredible how she lived to be 101, never remarried, never moved from the house they shared I sincerely wish that they both Rest in Peace- Radnoti, free of the pain of his murder and Fanni, free of bad memories. But what of Ady? poet, philosopher, pious, ( apparently) he wrote of love in all its splendor- Godly and earthly, his heart yearned for, reached for the pure- such pinnacled ideals... but he wallowed in debauchery embraced the sordid- and it killed him... of syphilis, at the age of 41. How can one explain such stark duality in an intelligent man? Is it hypocrisy? Madness? Evil? Or merely the poet's burden of paradox and irony? One I know well in my own tragic way. For my themes have always been of healing and transformation, transcending trauma rising as a Phoenix birth of ash. Professors and students, prominent writers, strangers online have praised my work, thanking me for impacting them, telling me how I have touched their lives. But I think of these phrases: " Physician heal thyself." and, " The shoemaker's child goes barefoot." because for me, poetry has been catharsis - a release, but never a resolution not a reprieve. I remain broken, and like Ady, like Radnoti, misinterpretation misunderstanding and judgement abound- And I recall that ever since my youth, people have told me "You are too smart for your own good " What does this even mean? Is it just 1 more thing that ties me to these long dead poets?