I just finished reading the latest installment of a series of essays on grief. Slate.com - Meghan O'Rourke. Grief. I'm into the happy stuff, don't want to read about evil dictators, twitter, corporate failure, car accidents.... it goes on. There are a lot of things I won't read about.

So why was I (or anyone) willing to spend so much time on the brink of tears?

First thought, a shout out to the intellectual, this is the appreciation of wonderful writing. I'll often give things a look, briefly, if I like the construction of the sentences, the lovely flow of images. But I don't finish them. I have a book on my nightstand about a child dying of...something, that I can't even start (for years now), that I am told is really very good.

And the personal connection. Well, hell. That's the secret we want to believe we have just exposed. Grief, loss, strong emotions, and....personal, and suddenly it is mine, my grief, my suffering. And my hackles are raised - because it isn't my loss. It's hers. The author, Ms. O'Rourke has laid her experience and raw emotions out there - on the internet. She has also done some wonderful analysis, scientific and poetic. So I understand better, and know that there is just feeling.The thrill of romance, and the pain of loss is part of the grasping at strong connections.

Yet there is the shame of voyeurism and most horribly, of appropriating someone else's pain. It reminds of the (admittedly cheap) thrill of the romance novel.