Initially, it disguises itself as being rational, realistic, and postmodern. It presents the plain facts for logical, modern-day readers who believe that the world is scientifically ordered. Many like to read literature like this. I do. It makes sense. I'm educated! I know bullshit when I see it!
However, at the end of the day, after tucking me into my literary security blanket, these novels whisper a disconcerting question into my ear: what if magic is real? And if it is, are you able to accept it?
It almost questions my soul: are you insipid and lifeless, or are you able to accept the mystery?
Literature seems to be enticing me back to enchantment. It tries to be unassuming, but I have the feeling that it wants me to take "magic" home with me at the end of the day and though I do not want to admit it, I really do want to take it home with me. I crave it. What does this mean? Does it mean that I am the epitome of triteness?
At this point, I feel like these books want me to ask these very questions and maybe nothing more. They want me, the overly-anylitical and rational reader, to wonder if the unreal is perhaps real. Maybe it is a version of escapism (it appears that the human race is fucked), or maybe it is literary evolution. I hope it is the latter.
Regardless, I am glad that it is asking me. I'm glad that it feels like something is moving somewhere. Forward, backward, sideways, who cares? At least it's moving.
1 comment:
Specifically: Life of Pi, and The Brief, Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao.
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