Reading Fiction in a Bad World

Reading WHY READ FICTION IN A BAD WORLD? I found a good reason for reading and reminding me why I should not stop writing:

Perhaps anxiety about the purpose of fiction is really just a displaced anxiety about the purpose of life. If so, the suspicion of fiction is obviously misdirected. (It is not the novelist’s fault that God is dead). But, for my own part, anxiety about the purpose of life is one of many excellent reasons for reading fiction. If so, the suspicion of fiction is obviously misdirected. (It is not the novelist’s fault that God is dead). But, for my own part, anxiety about the purpose of life is one of many excellent reasons for reading fiction.  In Letters to a Young Novelist, Mario Vargas Llosa argues that the source of the literary vocation is rebellion: “Why would anyone who is deeply satisfied with reality, with life as it is lived, dedicate himself to something as insubstantial and fanciful as the creation of fictional realities?” And by extension, why would anyone satisfied with reality read it? Fiction satisfies, intermittently and imperfectly, a metaphysical longing, a desire to extend life beyond its arbitrary limits. Fiction satisfies, intermittently and imperfectly, a metaphysical longing, a desire to extend life beyond its arbitrary limits. Without it, life just wouldn’t be enough — “life as it is lived” would be unbearable. As Gore Vidal put it: “The creation of a work of art, like an act of love, is our one small “yes” at the center of a vast “no.””

sch 3/23/22 

Nathan Bransford commented on this same article here and from his post I steal this:

Like everyone else, I have spent some of the last few weeks casting about for ways to Do Something. But we’re all limited to our spheres, means, and abilities. I’ve donated to the causes I care about and will vote with my interests and try to make choices consistent with my values. But I’m not running for political office and won’t be in charge of a military any time soon. I can’t stop the latest horrible thing going on in the world.

I’m a writer, so I write.

Depression beat me down once. Depression feeding upon and adding to a sense that life was a diseased malignancy for which the only answer was suicide. It was malignant only because I let myself be convinced by bad biochemistry. I figured that out only by picking up a pen to start writing an apology to family and friends 12 years ago. It is why I keep writing - even pieces like this. 

I suggest you try it, too.

sch 3/26/22