One of my favorite stories is about a woman who, through tragic circumstances, loses both the man she loves and her livelihood. The story leaves the reader agonizing, wondering how-will-she-move-on??
But then - in the last pages of the book, the author begins another story. A wonderful story. He writes of how the woman survives the tragedy, begins anew, and ends up doing great things for the Women's Movement. At first I rebelled against his ending. I wanted the heroine to end up happily ever after with her true love! But the more I thought about it (and I thought about it a LOT), the more I fell in love with the irony. It was bittersweet and...perfect.
I have been obsessed with irony for as long as I can remember. You can find it in the books I've loved most. You can read it in 99% of the poetry I've written. Sometimes I've considered irony tragic. Sometimes I've recognized irony as beautiful and good. Generally I've found it amusing, at least.
When I was in ninth grade English, I had to write a eulogy for myself ("What, you think I don't know what a eugoogly is??"). As a 13-year old fast-forwarding to my death, I wrote that I became a multi-lingual foreign diplomat, and then died young at the age of 26 (skin cancer).
I thought at the time I was just being funny. Now I think I was actually revealing my heart's true desire...to live an ironic life...