Art vs. Life vs. Genius

Have any of you seen the recent revelations about Arthur Miller? Arguably America's best playwright . . . Death of a Salesman, The Crucible . . . that guy who married Marilyn Monroe . . . THAT Arthur Miller.

Hailed as a genius by all, he was also a hero to many--he refused to "name names" during the Communist witchhunt. For that, I admired him. The Crucible's allegory came from his experiences--and those of Elia Kazan (who DID name names and for that, I think he was and died a coward--he never made amends for his actions). But there's another side to Miller. He and his last wife had a child born with Down Syndrome. They institutionalized him, and while his wife went weekly to visit the child, Miller never did. He excised him from his life, from his own memoir. (Which goes to another theory of mine that, James Frey aside, memoir is really the truth as you see it and only that.) Few people knew of this child's existence. Miller refused to acknowledge him--though he reputedly left 1/4 of his estate in trust to him.

So now, scholars are left to dissect this bit of information that has recently come to light. What does it mean about Miller? What clues can be found of this in his art? Because much as writers put forth their work as fiction, it's all fodder for dissection when a certain level of fame is achieved.

And, like many geniuses, friend and admirers alike cut Miller slack. I, for one, can't fully comment . . . because it WASN'T his choice to have his life dissected at the moment he made that choice, and since people routinely institutionalized the disabled in the 1960s, as much as I loathe the choice he made, it was a private choice. No one knows what anguish Miller felt over it. Was it a cold-hearted decision? Einstein, another genius, apparently gave up a daughter to an orphanage. Who can understand these choices people make? What went on behind closed doors?

But one comment . . . one thought . . . is for Miller, the art was the thing. All else was sacrificed on its altar. That's what some commentators have posited. There are actors who want fame who routinely make the same sorts of sacrifices. A deal with the devil. Privacy and even human decency in exchange for the drug of fame. Geniuses of science who delved into it at the cost of all else. (I read a biography of Paul Erdos--love his story--a mathematical genius--and while discussing it with a neighbor today, my neighbor said Erdos's amphetmine addiction was what DROVE his genius, in essence, and moved mathematical theory forward . . . a sacrifice of Erdos being for his brain.) There are writers who destroyed all in their path. Picasso, who devoured the women in his life.

I know, for me, having grace is the most important thing. Compassion. But I also know that dancing around in my head all the time leaves me, sometimes, remote, difficult, and impatient. I also know some writers in the blogosphere who give up family time, vacations, and courteousness, even, for chasing the dream. Some seem like they would do anything for a NY Times bestseller.

Is there a balance? Can there be if you are ever to achieve true greatness? This post is really a series of questions . . . I'm curious what you all think.