Yes, she does. No, not really. Yes. She does. Literally or figuratively, the tragic woman dies. She totally does. She dies from shame, the loaded word. Shame of living, not living enough, acting inappropriately, shame acquired (the hopeless romantic in me). The list of 'tragedy' is endless. Think about Shakespeare's Juliet, Portia, Ophelia and Cordelia. What fates they met. What about Hawthorne’s Hester. What a lovely way to live. Yes, she lived decades before Williams' Maggie, Stella and Blanche. But, tragic women all have one thing in common. They love. Unrequited. Shallow. Forbidden. It is the heart that makes a woman tragic. Pish posh, said outloud because, men love too. I've know a few tragedies in my day. It's just (I'm the first to admit) not that interesting to read about tragic men. Yes, I perpetuate the stereotype here, and I can't mention tragic women without calling attention to Ms. Monroe and Ms. Woolf. The belles of tragedy. Why o why. In all of my searching, I am continually drawn to their deaths and the ghosts that followed. Is that something missing. Because, it seems a more meaningful act when the woman dies.
