Post 30

More quazi-literary rantings now:

Today I read Fahrenheit 451 and got paid for it (I subbed a few hours of study hall and found it in the classroom). A week or so ago, I read Jonathon Livingston Seagull. I have read a couple more of Plato's Socrates dialogs and started chipping away at Walden and some Emerson, but I have encountered a dramatic disconnect, and I'm not sure what to do about it.

Previously, I have mentioned my distaste for Harry Potter without explaining how it came to be--a story that actually predates my account in Post 9 and seems relevant now.

As I read Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Harry and I shared many a magical moment; we connected. I know what it's like to have friends in crappy relationships; I know it's like to have a teacher take oppressively special notice of me; I know what it's like to be worried about the health of a mentor; I know what a crush is like; I even connected with the Felix Felicis scene because I know what it's like a day when everything goes just right--I've never connected so deeply with any other work of fiction as I did with this book. The magic and witchcraft and lurking evil were all circumstantial; the quintessential story was the ups and downs of mid-adolescence, and I can feel that; it's real to me.
But "the higher my high/the lower my low"; this poignant connection is what set the entire Harry Potter series up for a fall from grace. Whereas I can connect with worrying over a gimpy father figure, I have no comprehension what it would be like to force-feed said figure a debilitating hallucinogen just to watch him rush into death--all for naught; whereas I have had unfulfilled crushes, I have never told a girl I was "in love with" to go on without me because she'd be better off with someone else. And, whereas many a Harry Potter fan read these things and thought, "How terrible!"--meaning "I can't imagine what it's like to go through anything so traumatic; poor Harry!"--I read these scenes and thought, "How terrible!"--meaning "Well, there goes my willing suspension of disbelief, blown away like so many ashes of a cremated pet on a windy day. And, seriously Harry, get over yourself; she's almost as stupid as you are and will willingly die with you." I don't know; there seemed to be nothing more to come from the story. Sure, book seven ironed out a lot of wrinkles--brilliantly, I begrudgingly admit--but the magic of the story was gone; I could not find myself able to care. Harry had gotten incredibly unlikable in the fifth book, but by the conclusion of book six, I hated the kid--irrationally, perhaps, but also undeniably. I suppose once a work of fiction looses its relevancy to real life and the human condition, it becomes little more than words--less, in fact: mere ink on paper (or flashes of light with choreographed sounds, as was the case with the fifth Harry Potter movie [see Post 9]).

So that's the lens I see fiction through. I believe I have before expressed that I feel I'm at a crucial time in my life wherein I am very vulnerable and impressionable and required to make decisions that carry lifelong and even eternal consequences, so I'm looking for literature that will change me in righteous ways at this ever so crucial moment, but in order for fiction to change me, it must impact me; to impact me, it must connect with me; to connect with me, it must have some foundation in what is real to me. That, then, is where the disconnect lies: stories that have no bearing on what is real.

Perhaps the scripture that has had the greatest impact on me is Doctrine and Covenants section 50, verse 23. I found it one morning in Eagle, Id, and it has been a standard flapping in my face ever since. It's so short, so direct, so unmisrepresentable. Here it is:

And that which doth not edify is not of God, and is darkness.

Definitions of "edify" include:

To build up. In the Christian context it means to strengthen someone, or be strengthened, in relationship to God, the Christian walk, and holiness

Improve spiritually or morally by instruction or example.

enlighten: make understand

So, if whatever bit of fiction you're reading or watching or listening to or otherwise experiencing does not build you up and/or strengthen you and/or improve you and/or enlighten you, not only is it a waste of your time, it is darkness.

I must admit this troubles me--a lot. For God to call something darkness--his metaphysical opposite--it's pretty intense.

This is a tangent I did not intend to take, but it gets to the heart of my difficulties in regards to fiction--or any work, regardless of factuality. But how can one know whether a work will edify without trying it? Such is my conundrum.

Anyway, that nonlinear bit of thought is where I stand when it comes to books and movies and music and all suchlike. I think that fiction is generally too far separated from reality--designed to be a fleeting escape rather than any sort of--actual--helpful--sumpineruther. This is very sad.

I have felt the first inkling of regret for reading so much so fast; I think I blew off an absolute jewel in reading Jonathan Livingston Seagull so quickly and not pondering the subtle details of the allegory, but because I've read it so recently and I still have so much to read, it will likely be a very long time before I reread it--even if it is a very short volume. I think it's just the sort of thing I've been looking for, and I missed it. A hypocritically hearty recommendation on this one.

Fahrenheit 451 is--okay. I like it, but having read 1984, it's a comparatively weak take on the government-oppression dystopia thing. Of course, the concepts are quite different, and their denouements are opposed to each other--at least 451 leaves the faint impression of hope. But Bradbury's writing is kinda sloppy and occasionally over the top. I did manage to connect with Montag a few times, though, and once or twice felt a tad emotional. But it wasn't in the struggle that made up the main story; it was in the isolation, the fact that he and his wife were strangers, the fact that he had no idea what it's like to just sit and chat. It was when he could hear the family next door talking and laughing and contemplated knocking on the door and asking to join. I forget his exact thought, but it was something akin to "Can I come in? I won't say anything, I just want to know what it is you talk about." I know what it's like to be the outsider, and I have been lonely when I'm not alone, but this was so personal to me because I am a man of very few phobias, but perhaps my greatest fear is that I will one day find myself a stranger to those I love.
I don't know how enthusiastically I'd recommend this book; as I said, I felt the writing was sloppy. Furthermore, the ending seemed to drag on and on--I would have ended it with Montag hopping in the river, changing his clothes, and floating away, leaving the possibility of traveling literary hasbeens to the imagination of the reader.
One little sidenote: Ray Bradbury wrote a play version of Fahrenheit 451, but he didn't just shorten the story, change its formatting, and divide it into two acts; he actually rewrote the entire story and, in my opinion, did a much better job of it. I think the contrast between the two is the most impressive thing, though, so if you ever have the opportunity to see the play, read the book first to ensure that the original isn't any more disappointing than it has to be and also to ensure you can appreciate the differences.

Well, I grow weary of this drivel, so I'll end it here.