Without the stigma, much of what we have written about in the last hundred years will be largely irrelevant. We won't be suffering, suicidal, sex-crazed perverts anymore; we will be loving, caring, responsible individuals, even in the mind of the reading public. It may be some way off, but we are getting there. What, then, will happen to literature?
During the spring semester of 2002, while I was teaching my creative-writing class at Sheepshead Bay High School in Brooklyn, a student finally shared and read aloud a poem that he had just written. And after he read, our jaws dropped with amazement, our eyes widened with shock, our brows curled with concern, our hearts stopped with empathy, and our bodies froze with fear.