"Aftermath" by Sylvia Plath
Date: Saturday evening, 15th April
I met Harry Potter today.
It was peculiar, after having seen his name in print sporadically over the last two decades (usually with the prefix “the famous,” “Our Savior,” or “The Boy Who Lived” attached obligatorily) to meet the individual himself. Flesh and blood, as they say. Actual actuality.
I was not (as some might easily imagine, transferring their own desires to me vicariously) even remotely affected by some misplaced simulacrum of celebrity awe, or whatever it is this frenzy of attention paid to movie stars, film stars, or Boy Wonders is called. Not in the least. In fact, I believe my reaction was quite the opposite; what I glimpsed this afternoon was exactly what I mentioned: flesh and blood. Harry Potter is a normal boy-or what a normal boy might become if told he was destined to give his own life to save the wizarding world from the darkest individual entity we have ever known.
But then, while he gave his life in the figurative sense (devoting himself, that is) seeking out the Dark Lord and in effect doing what he was supposedly “meant” to do…he did not have to literally give his life.
So what does one do, at that juncture? Was Mr. Potter ever allowed to pursue what he wanted to do with his life, or was he merely groomed for the purpose foisted on him? All those the boy has trusted with his love have disappeared in ways he no doubt still tortures himself over (that too, I suspect, enters into the equation: a mind brought up to believe it is up to oneself alone to save all the afflicted souls).
Does he feel as though he is suspended in a sort of post-meaning limbo? That his “purpose,” as it is so disgustingly worded, has been served? After what that boy has witnessed, I have no doubts that the very fact he functions so well is a testament to the strength of his will and passion. But how can we call a thing “good” when this being, a fallible, likely tormented, human being, is paralyzed against his will in the eyes of the citizenry, turned into some sort of public idol? Especially considering that the public enjoys the affair far more when said saints are dragged through a bit of mud.
Putting all of this into words thus instigates more contemplation: Mr. Potter had no semblance of an ordinary childhood. He essentially began the fight in earnest when he was what? Eleven years old, and a first-year?
Was he even told the truth then? After his life had been risked? Or was he forced to develop his own means of coping, convinced that he alone was expected to shoulder the burden? Does he still believe as much?
And yet, I muse over these things with no real intent save that of personal understanding and professional interest. My mind, in conjunction with my training, wanders into perplexing corners now and again, the details of which I divulge only to this silent page.
Catharsis indeed. Hmph.
I met Harry Potter today.
It was peculiar, after having seen his name in print sporadically over the last two decades (usually with the prefix “the famous,” “Our Savior,” or “The Boy Who Lived” attached obligatorily) to meet the individual himself. Flesh and blood, as they say. Actual actuality.
I was not (as some might easily imagine, transferring their own desires to me vicariously) even remotely affected by some misplaced simulacrum of celebrity awe, or whatever it is this frenzy of attention paid to movie stars, film stars, or Boy Wonders is called. Not in the least. In fact, I believe my reaction was quite the opposite; what I glimpsed this afternoon was exactly what I mentioned: flesh and blood. Harry Potter is a normal boy-or what a normal boy might become if told he was destined to give his own life to save the wizarding world from the darkest individual entity we have ever known.
But then, while he gave his life in the figurative sense (devoting himself, that is) seeking out the Dark Lord and in effect doing what he was supposedly “meant” to do…he did not have to literally give his life.
So what does one do, at that juncture? Was Mr. Potter ever allowed to pursue what he wanted to do with his life, or was he merely groomed for the purpose foisted on him? All those the boy has trusted with his love have disappeared in ways he no doubt still tortures himself over (that too, I suspect, enters into the equation: a mind brought up to believe it is up to oneself alone to save all the afflicted souls).
Does he feel as though he is suspended in a sort of post-meaning limbo? That his “purpose,” as it is so disgustingly worded, has been served? After what that boy has witnessed, I have no doubts that the very fact he functions so well is a testament to the strength of his will and passion. But how can we call a thing “good” when this being, a fallible, likely tormented, human being, is paralyzed against his will in the eyes of the citizenry, turned into some sort of public idol? Especially considering that the public enjoys the affair far more when said saints are dragged through a bit of mud.
Putting all of this into words thus instigates more contemplation: Mr. Potter had no semblance of an ordinary childhood. He essentially began the fight in earnest when he was what? Eleven years old, and a first-year?
Was he even told the truth then? After his life had been risked? Or was he forced to develop his own means of coping, convinced that he alone was expected to shoulder the burden? Does he still believe as much?
And yet, I muse over these things with no real intent save that of personal understanding and professional interest. My mind, in conjunction with my training, wanders into perplexing corners now and again, the details of which I divulge only to this silent page.
Catharsis indeed. Hmph.