In this series, Obsessions, writers select a treasured cultural artifact and hold it up to the light, reflecting on the revelations it has sparked, the nostalgia it conjures, and the deep-seated urges it articulates.
My parents purchased a used Marx Brothers box set at the Chelsea Flea Market back when it was a parking garage. I watched the VHS tapes repeatedly, teething eagerly on the smallest details—expressions, words, scents, habits—in the greedy way children consume things.
Groucho Marx was the first man I ever fell in love with. He died August 19, 1977 and I, Nicolaia Rips, was born August 19, 1998.
Obsession is the gulf between adoration and ownership, where the self boils. It is all-consuming and bewildering. From the age of 5, my personality was so tethered to Groucho’s that my room became a shrine: no Barbies, but there was a statue of him with a cigar pinched insolently between his teeth, a poster for Duck Soup in Spanish, assorted biographies, letters he had written, and several sets of You Bet Your Life that I watched until I couldn’t breathe.
I was 11 when we visited California. I insisted on a pilgrimage to Groucho Marx’s former home and was devastated to find that it was being demoed by its new owners. I forced my mom to take a photo of me in front of the wreckage anyway. In it, I’m standing tear-soaked next to his mailbox, a wrecking ball swinging behind me.
The Marx Brothers cut the world to child-size. In their universe, you can wriggle out of most horrors with a quip, a song, or an eyebrow waggle. Of course, as we get bigger, so do our problems.
When I feel bogged down by mine, I watch A Night at the Opera and remind myself that I’ve fallen into the trap: I’ve taken myself seriously again—but there’s always the chance to laugh at life's wrecking balls, even through tears.
For more Obsessions, read this investigation into the allure of Past Lives by writer J Wortham.
