Fiction and life

I have always loved fictional writings. Stories of another life, being able to get inside and see existence from the perspective of the people in the book, getting to know them and in the finale analysis, to be able to understand why they are, the way they are. Some say the fiction is not real, but actually it is. Since within the covers of the book are experiences both inward and outward, that the reader can resonate with, because in many ways we are very much alike.

A deep understanding of the characters in a novel can be very educational in growing in acceptance of oneself as well as others. I guess they both go together. A good writer can create a whole universe and for a time the reader becomes part of that world, even taking on the beliefs of those who live within the books cover. I guess that is why some people fear opening the pages of certain authors, knowing that they will become part of an alien world, with beliefs that are different from their own. For instance, reading a novel written by Sartre, say ‘Nausea”, is a lot different than reading a novel by C.S. Lewis, his Sci Fi trilogy for instance is great reading. The first was written by an atheist the other by a Christian. Yet in each the reader is drawn into their world for a while.

Also, fiction can make us aware of the stories that we each live out during the years we sojourn upon this earth. Our inner lives are hidden from one another and to a certain extent from ourselves as well. For the unconscious, is vaster and deeper than our waking consciousness can fathom and even begin to understand. The meaning of our inner lives is often mirrored back to us in the way we live with others, judge them and react to how they live out their lives. I would suppose we all from time to time carry the darkness of others projected onto us…and then scape-goateed because of that and vise-versa, we can also punish others for mirroring back to us aspects of ourselves we are out of touch with. So by reading fiction we are drawn into the inner world of the characters, which can help us understand not only how different others can be from us, but also the many similarities that also exist. This is a good bridge to build, for compassion and empathy can lessen the suffering that others can cause us.

I was at the VA this week here in Atlanta. It is a huge building and can be a confusing place to be. The first floor is a maze of corridors that even after many visits can be a little confusing. I had an early afternoon appointment on Friday which took about three hours. After the test was over I decided to go by the canteen to get some coffee before I hit the road to go home. The canteen was getting ready to close and there was no coffee, so I decided to leave and perhaps get some java later, on my drive back. As I was leaving, I noticed to my left a man in a wheel chair who was very slowly making his way out of the side entrance. My first urge was to ask if he needed help, but I repressed it and continued on my way. I felt a gentle inner nudge to help him; again I refused and went a few more steps. The third nudge is the charm, so I went back and asked him if he needed some help. He looked a little relieved and said that yes he was trying to get up to the ninth floor. For someone in wheelchair, who was very weak, that was a vey long trip. So we began our journey. As we proceeded we talked a bit. The hallways were almost empty so it was quiet enough for us to communicate. He asked me when I was in the service and I told him from 67 to71. He said that he entered in 59 and was in every war during his career, his last being the gulf war. He was at the Bay of Pigs, Vietnam and Iraq. He said that he got to be an E5 before he was in the service five years. He was also paralyzed from his waist down, but he did not go into that; if it was service related or not. So we soon arrived at his room and I said my good byes and left.

As I was making my way to my car I began to think about how interesting people are and how many stories they could relate if someone had the time to sit down and listen. I was only with this man for five minutes, yet as I left, I felt that he had a life that could fill many volumes if he had the desire or tendency to write. Most likely he did not, and perhaps did not understand the richness that his life contained, trapped within his own inner world of personal subjective memories. He seemed to be an intelligent man, his smile was kind and his eyes peaceful; so hopefully he has come to terms with all the things he has experienced and seen during his time in the service.

Two ships passing in the night, but when we parted I think I took a small piece of him with me. My heart was heavy, because much of his youth was spent in fighting, yet he seemed proud and unashamed, which is a good thing. Hopefully one day we will live in a world wherein young men and women will not have to be sacrificed for the protection of their perspective countries. Or simply used for the power addiction of certain classes of men and women who have positions of power and will do anything and everything to keep it. Power does corrupt, that is apparent. However, at this time we live in a world where armies are still needed. Yet one can always hope that the inner conflicts projected outward, will one day cease, when we hopefully reach a certain level of maturity and spiritual insight which hopefully will lead to the ending of wars, or at least a lessening.

In the meantime, I truly believe that literature, read thoughtfully, can be a path to an ever deeper understanding of the inner struggles we all go through and the effort it takes to simply strive to live a simple, decent, human life. In each book there is a course in psychology, philosophy and theology; it is just hidden in the story. For we are each philosophers’ trying to make sense of life and the chaos and pain, as well as the joys and sorrows, which that entails. When that is understood, perhaps that is when compassion and mercy become probable, this understanding of the mystery that we are.