More Heartbreak

The poet Deborah Digges has died, an apparent suicide. I met her once at a conference and have admired her work. She was just my age — a year older — and I remember envying her when she won the Tufts Award. She was successful and loved animals, though I heard that her husband had recently died of cancer. She had previously been married to the poet Stanley Plumly. Is it unseemly to wonder whether perhaps she had come to a point where she had nothing left to prove with her art and at the same time was overcome by loneliness? It’s dangerous, I suppose, to impute motives to the dead, but this just seems so untoward. Just goes to show that success doesn’t insure happiness and that suicide has its own awful logic. [More from the NY Times here.]