(no subject)

Tonight Alex cried her eyes out because Edouard Laboulaye is dead.

We've been reading Lady Liberty: A Biography, which tells the story of the Statue of Liberty's conception, construction, financing, and installation in a series of first-person narratives. Laboulaye was a 19th-century French university professor who first had the idea that the French should comemmorate America's hundredth birthday with a monument.

There's a line towards the end where Bartholdi, the statue's sculptor, says he's sorry that Laboulaye didn't live to see their dream realized. Alex asked me why Laboulaye didn't live to see it, and I told her that he died while they were building the statue.

She burst into noisy sobs. "Ohhhhh, I'm so sad!"

"What's wrong?"

"I'm so sad that Laboulaye is DEAD!"

I thought she was putting me on, but genuine tears were pouring down her face. I made the mistake of trying to reason with her.

"But honey, the people in this book lived a very long time ago. More than a hundred years ago."

"Are..." her voice quavered. "Are most of them still alive?"

"No. They lived such a long long time ago that they're all dead now."

More howling sobs.

"Alex, most of them lived long lives, and they were so proud to see the statue they made. And the Statue of Liberty is still here, and people will always remember them when they see her."

"But I wanted to HUG them." She collapsed on the bed, still crying. "I never got to know them! I don't even REMEMBER them!"

It took forever to calm her down. It really seemed like genuine grief.