The Power of Fiction

I just finished reading David Foster Wallace's Infinite Jest. I always get depressed when I finish reading a really good novel. Even when they end happy, I always want to know what else happened - what about the lives of the secondary characters? Or the tertiary characters? When I get to the last page, and close the cover, it's like I am closing a world. Like it's the end of an existence that I will never get to know more about.

I happened to be reading this 981 page (plus 50 or so pages of endnotes) tome as part of Infinite Summer. I've been keeping up with the posts at infinitesummer.org and mostly been kinda disappointed. Except for one that explored the idea of childhood and happiness. Or, conversely, adulthood and sadness. The argument was that children have an unbounded capacity for joy, whereas adults seem to have to work hard to find joy. I wonder why that is. I suppose that perhaps it has to do with the familiar axiom that ignorance is bliss. As a teacher, it also explains a lot about my students. And makes me wonder if teaching (at least as part of the institution that is public school) is really an exercise in pounding joy out of children.

Second reflection on fiction: Ralph Nader was plugging his new book on Democracy Now the other day. Now, although I voted for Nader in 2000 (relax - I didn't live in FL, my vote didn't hurt Gore) I can't say I'm a fan. But he said something that struck me: fiction allows for creative imagination. Now, this isn't an earth-shattering statement, I realize. But I've been making the argument for years that history is more important than fiction, because it is real. But, to be honest, it isn't all that hopeful. I think I'm coming around to fiction . . .