Dolly Parton Was the Last Person Everyone Loved

There’s a style rule my editors have tried to instill in me: to shy away from using the word “beloved” to describe someone. It’s a big word, one with powerful, indisputable meaning that risks being diminished if used flippantly or too often. I would venture there’s never been a more appropriate time to use it than now. The beloved icon—perhaps the most beloved—Dolly Parton died.

The singer. The songwriter. The actress. The humanitarian. The businesswoman. The natural comedienne. The universally adored entertainer.

She was the resident bard of Americana, and the translator of our heartbreak, our jealousy, our pride, our love, and our humor. No one epitomized the holy trinity of fabulousness, godliness, and expertise with as much zeal and, in harmony, modesty.

There’s an instinct to call Parton the closest thing our country has to royalty, as the most significant gesture we can imagine to telegraph a person’s importance is to metaphorically coronate them. That seems both inadequate and illegitimate when it comes to Dolly.

I would say imagine the reaction if someone ever said something disparaging about Dolly Parton, but frankly, the notion is so ludicrous, veering to the point of impossible—as if the rules of the universe would never allow such a thing—that the hypothetical isn’t even worth raising.

Text alerts, phone calls, and gasps from parents and friends echoed through the Daily Beast’s newsroom as the cable news channels on our office televisions broke into programming to announce Parton’s death, both Fox News and MS Now with comparable rigor and urgency—a first indication of the collective, unifying grief and her impact.

Everybody, for once not a hyperbole, but an irrefutable blanket statement, loved Dolly Parton. She may have been the only person in our culture for whom that was true, and now, perhaps, the last.

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