Chris, thank you for speaking to the vital relevance of literature. When I'm coaching someone who wants to write great fiction but who reads mostly mainstream novels for "escape," I always hold up Proust as an example of what I consider to be escapist reading. Proust catapults me back to fin de siecle Parisian high society, and the exper…
Chris, thank you for speaking to the vital relevance of literature. When I'm coaching someone who wants to write great fiction but who reads mostly mainstream novels for "escape," I always hold up Proust as an example of what I consider to be escapist reading. Proust catapults me back to fin de siecle Parisian high society, and the experience of being there is so vivid, I recall those volumes as if they were personal memories. I have trouble infecting would-be writers/casual readers with my passion for language, because I'm afraid of sounding pedantic. And I struggle to explain that great writers take you deep inside their psyche (Proust called it "le moi profonde") with unparalleled generosity. Proust becomes my intimate. He invites me to love him unconditionally--the only way I can love him once I've gotten to know him. For instance, I prefer to think he was an impressionable, bedazzled sycophant, who became disillusioned over time. But even in his disillusion, he never judges. That is one failing he does not have. There is a kind of mercy that great writers possess. With their capacity for understanding our desperation, they absolve us. I can't imagine a finer compliment than reading an author during a brutal war as a way to hang onto your humanity. Thank you again for including literature in the wide range of important subjects you cover here.
Chris, thank you for speaking to the vital relevance of literature. When I'm coaching someone who wants to write great fiction but who reads mostly mainstream novels for "escape," I always hold up Proust as an example of what I consider to be escapist reading. Proust catapults me back to fin de siecle Parisian high society, and the experience of being there is so vivid, I recall those volumes as if they were personal memories. I have trouble infecting would-be writers/casual readers with my passion for language, because I'm afraid of sounding pedantic. And I struggle to explain that great writers take you deep inside their psyche (Proust called it "le moi profonde") with unparalleled generosity. Proust becomes my intimate. He invites me to love him unconditionally--the only way I can love him once I've gotten to know him. For instance, I prefer to think he was an impressionable, bedazzled sycophant, who became disillusioned over time. But even in his disillusion, he never judges. That is one failing he does not have. There is a kind of mercy that great writers possess. With their capacity for understanding our desperation, they absolve us. I can't imagine a finer compliment than reading an author during a brutal war as a way to hang onto your humanity. Thank you again for including literature in the wide range of important subjects you cover here.
As always, Janet