Yesterday, I went to Borders in search of the latest Tori Amos album and wound up buying not only that, but that new facsimile version of Plath's Ariel, Srikanth Reddy's Facts for Visitors, and a novel I just happened to pick up intrigued by the title, Little Fugue, which, to my excitement, turned out to be about Plath as well. I have an odd liking for fictionalized biographies, my favorites being one I stumbled upon a few years ago in the bargain bin about the Bronte sisters, and that one about Plath by Kate Moses, wintering. I can't explain it really, but it has to be tapping into some sort of perverse literary voyeuristic tendencies I have, which is probably why I read blogs so much.
Oddly this seems only to extend to writers. When I was paying, the clerk told me that I might be interested in the fact that Tori Amos would be signing things in the Borders on Michigan avenue at some point. I wasn't the least bit interested, but I was tempted to tell him, when he commented on the Plath books, that if she were going to be signing, I'd be first in line. And while I love Tori Amos's music, and have ever since I heard Little Earthquakes, I'm not really very interested in the artist herself. I tend to look at musicians much as I tend to look at actors, not as celebrities, but as instruments moved around in front of the camera to tell a story, or in this case, the person that creates a finished product. I don't care much about them beyond that..
