I've just been pointed to a more thoughtful article in the UK 'Observer on Sunday' by Victoria Coren, herself the daughter of a very famous UK journalist and author .
To my shame, I was surprised to hear that Paris Jackson was unhappy. When newspapers splashed with the news that Michael Jackson's 15-year-old daughter appeared to have attempted suicide, that was my reaction: surprise, not at the act, but the emotion that might trigger it.
Paris Jackson is beautiful, young, famous and inordinately wealthy. Our culture tells us that this way happiness lies.
Some voices out there still whisper that a deeper happiness comes from reading, learning, building, travelling, running, planting, random acts of kindness – and, of course, having a dog. But the overwhelming scream, in the ears of the young, is that contentment comes from bleaching, tanning, waxing, posing, winning The X Factor and wearing diamond shoes. Beauty, fame and money: the happiness equation.
When I was 15, I wanted only beauty. I had the other things, sort of. It was a tiny and rarefied sort of fame (the kind that comes from having a newspaper column before you leave school), but the money – £75 a week – was enormous. Especially when I had nothing to spend it on but the occasional cinema ticket and my collection of china aircraft. Seriously. China aircraft. With little china propellers. Before you think I was a weird child with limited interests, let me tell you: I also had china gunships. In your face, Lindsay Lohan!
The only thing I wanted, however, was to look like Paris Jackson. (Or, as we'd have said in those days, Jennie Garth from Beverly Hills 90210.) Or anyone thin with a small nose and no spots. How deliriously happy they must be, I thought, those girls with glossy hair and dewy skin and long legs.
Truly, I believed, it was impossible to be unhappy if you were pretty and thin.
Beautiful teenage girls that I knew about, from school or magazines (though not The Crested China Quarterly, which featured few teenage girls and a lot of bald antiques dealers), would often lay claim to unhappiness. The reasons were usually parental (divorce, alcoholism, lovelessness) or romantic (traumatic break-ups, infidelity, uncertainty). It all seemed glamorous to me.
If you were pretty and thin, trauma was either neutralised or elevated to a sort of thrilling plot twist in the general Beverly Hills 90210 of your beautiful life. Beauty was like sunshine, softening and warming and colouring everything with light. You could not be truly unhappy, if you weren't fat.
Now, I might have been fat but I wasn't stupid. If I heard the deafening cultural message that "beauty equals happiness" without realising it was nonsense (or, if not total nonsense, certainly a blunt, exaggerated and misleading generalisation), what chance for the kids who weren't very bright?
And what chance for them now, when that message is broadcast so much louder, over so many more media? What chance when the beauty is bundled in with fame and wealth that they don't have either? How will they ever find the secret path to planting a tree, getting a dog and climbing Ben Nevis? I've been a grown-up for years, but, in being surprised to learn that Paris Jackson is unhappy, I'm obviously still struggling to see reason myself.
In other words: however cruelly intrusive the reporting of Miss Jackson's hospitalisation, it could be of benefit to other people, especially in her age group. In our mass hysteria for the "happiness" of designer clothes, worldwide fame and perfect, hairless skin, it's an awakening slap round the face.
It seems likely that Paris's crisis is a ripple caused by the vaster pain of her father, who arranged for her birth under curious circumstances and left her life before she was ready.
Michael Jackson was one of those performers like Judy Garland, Marilyn Monroe or Amy Winehouse (come to think of it, they are usually women), whose inner suffering is so great, their fairytales so poisoned, that they are lifted beyond normal fame into a sort of immortal stardom. It's the combination of pain and talent that makes them fascinating and unforgettable. It's the evident fragility, within the fortress of success, that lets us in to empathise and care.
There is a tragic pantheon of stars whose music or acting is powerfully communicative because, one suspects, they are unable to communicate in the normal way, with the people around them. They self-medicate with drugs. They reach desperately for love from a million unknown strangers – and thus get it, though it never fulfils.
This is where they differ from a star like Gwyneth Paltrow, who projects a perfect life: a brave untruth, surely, which is likely to keep her sane but unlikely to win the love of strangers. And they differ to an unrecognisable extent from the celebrities who only project a perfect life, without the talent bit (the reality stars, the footballers' wives, the Hello! fodder), who are the ones most dangerously expounding the idea that "beauty, fame and wealth equal happiness" to a world of credulous fools.
It is the Jacksons, Winehouses and Monroes who offer an important balance against the misleading message of perfection. Michael Jackson's tragedy is that he seems truly to have loved, and been loved by, his children, but it was too late.
Paris Jackson did not choose to be famous, but, being so, her story, too, does something valuable to teach us all a lesson. By Friday morning, the world already loved her more than it loves Gwyneth Paltrow. We are probably better and smarter for knowing about her sorrow.
Will that be any comfort to her? Will she be soothed and cheered by knowing that millions of strangers care about her recovery?
I hope not. If that knowledge brings no comfort at all, then she's normal and she's going to be happy.
www.victoriacoren.com
http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2013/jun/09/paris-jackson-beauty-myth-coren