the genius of sad

a few weeks ago i finished miss lonelyhearts and the day of the locust. it was one of those books that consumed me. like i'd be walking through brooklyn drunk in the early morning and i'd pull it from my purse and start reading it out loud to my random friend of the evening and bully them into listening. no really. listen. are you hearing this? so as i'm belligerently pointing out my favorite passage to two unassuming friends of mine one drunken dawn, i realize i need someone who i can actually talk to about the book. my friend agrees to read it. and he loves it but he tells me "it makes me want to fucking kill myself, but it's great." and that bothered me tremendously. sad is not bad. oh dear. that sentence sounds like it was plucked from a children's book about dealing with your feelings. but no. let's rewind. why is everyone so terrified of the darker bits of this murky planet. there's so much of it. to me it seems more natural to claw through it with your hands and gather it close to your face like wet sand all clumps and grains. shapeless and massive and tiny. i want to look at all the little molecules and see how they shine when the light hits. and that is what nathanael west does. he shoves all that wet sand right in your face. up to your nose so you can smell the beach on it and before you know it you're running your tongue over your teeth wondering how all those sharp little pebbles can feel so smooth on your skin. so sweet and hot on your feet.