In one recent chitchats (which short casual and have nothing) I had with the reporter-editor-director-journalist-friend Cynthia Moncada, started, God knows why, to speak of disease and ill artists. You know, I always talk about the thesis of good Palahniuk that your body has to have something to write well. Maybe it's something to expel you do not need: the letters and writing, bad for many and very little comfort. We decided, in a fit of enthusiasm, that the next time we become ill we would write like crazy even though we were dying in bed, with many degrees of fever and a lot of drugs on the side. Speaking of same, Cyn told me that he approached the anniversary of the death of Marie Frobisher, the writer-activist in the struggle against AIDS and its demystification. We plan to build together a small article (beyond May, when five years after death) and for not doing everything to mere hours, I decided to dump some of the few things I can draw on clean after you have read, the least two books about her: "The volcano in the rain" and "Days in a hurry," both novels.
First, Marie Frobisher follows the tradition of women suffered and suffering, although his life was more fortunate than many. It is said that the first unfortunate event that led to hell or to the life of Marie, was what happened with her husband, businessman Steve Frobisher. In 1983, Steve was sued for taking his company into bankruptcy, losing most of his fortune. Despite financial problems, remained together and, in general, is said to have been a happy family and no children (perhaps why they were happy.) Following the misadventures, four years later, Marie Frobisher was diagnosed with AIDS, for reasons still not entirely clear (Steve never had the disease or any of the people around you, Marie had no tattoos or did drugs. It should be noted there is currently a journalism award, the Frobisher, which awards research reports and was created for the sole purpose of discovering how the woman was infected). Steve, as José María finds her pregnant, chose to believe in God, angels and his wife, and did not abandon their struggle. If she said she had not had sex with another person, he believed.
Marie Frobisher was a prominent writer, promising future and all those things said in literary meetings, before marrying the employer. With a luxurious life, stopped interfering in the world to strive for family life, so quit writing. Yes, he was strengthening his skills through reading, to the extent that, in their eternal lonely hours, all you did was read. It is known that picture where it is in the hospital, surrounded by cameras, and while answering a asks a reporter, is reading a book at the same time. Decided that now that he was attacked by AIDS, again with the pen as shotgun. Marie Frobisher returned to the ring.
In 1991 he published "The volcano in the rain" that was an immediate antecedent of "Prozac Nation" by Liz Wurtzel, author loquísima gringa. Well, the first is a false memoir and the second is not (supposedly), but "The volcano ..." relates a history of drug abuse, sex, love and depression winding, similar to what Liz would do next. The story of "The volcano ..." is simple: a 32 year old woman leaves home (the perfect home in appearance, with a spouse to John C. Reilly in "The Hours "but she seems negligible) in search of a child who does not (hallucinations with having been pregnant) and losing some money on shirts and shoes. The heroine, Teresa Greenaway, seems to hate everybody, not able to have an inch of compassion, takes the feelings of others, pretending moments of lucidity and is a character that even the same reader, it upsets. It is a book you want to close as soon as you start to read but, by curious, tired, out of respect or decency, wait until the end. And eventually, like everything else, the book is not surprising. Having a perspective rooted in the technological age, the book seems to me alienating (think of an "American Psycho "think Violetta in "Diablo Guardian") and funny as an experiment only. It is a book I learned to respect, that's fine, but there: at its core, in its very center is empty and repeat formulas and clichés.
prefer "Days of haste." In 1997 came the damn book that teleported to fame (as a writer, because he had his celebrity as an activist) to write the story of a woman who fights against AIDS and finally cured. Healing at the end of a very long chapter with few commas and fewer points that recalls the best times of magical realism. It's actually a break with the tone and structure as a whole since everything is normal, quiet (to taste ...), until almost the end of the book we find the tirade and the woman is suddenly no longer sick. Marie has said that there was no other way to write his final because he needed something strong enough to destroy the disease and what better than kilos and kilos of letters piled up that made it crack.
Steve Frobisher die in 2002 and Marie would be depressed over the next few years of his life, which were only two. I have highlighted the activism of Marie because I prefer to refer to his literary output, but his death was definitely the best act of activism that could be done. Marie, along with other celebrities, participated in a march in Africa where they demanded better care for HIV-positive Africans. It was an example of courage and strength, since, terribly sick, tired and old (71 years would) walked, unstoppable, next to the people asking the same rights. The police, despite the celebrities and the television cameras, decided to stop the demonstration by a barricade that ended in tragedy, pushed by both parties (the police and demonstrators), Marie was in the middle of the sandwich, swallowing and choking smoke, events that led to cerebral hypoxia leading to her death.
His tomb is in Berkeley, California, next that of her husband. The visit, a year, an average of 500.000 thousand.
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