I haven’t blogged much lately. Maybe the 8 week old baby and her demands have put the brakes on the thought process somewhat. She is amazing and wonderful and simply miraculous. She blocks thought. I just want to watch her and will her to be close to me.
Already she has been to Seattle, Vancouver and Lummi Island. She has been all over Chicago. She has been on 3 flights and two boats. She has stayed in hotel rooms and friends’ homes. She is the model of the post-civilization nomadic baby.
Read a couple of novels – mysteries. One by Michael Connelly called Angels’ Flight was a good read. But, do you ever get the feeling that all the narratives have been told? All that was to be made-up has been. The end of thinking? Are we observing a Francis Fukuyamaesque end of narrative? Post-civilization?
The modern writer can put his characters in modern surroundings, but the story is always some variation on a Greek myth or a Shakespearean play. Betrayal, love, sacrifice, hatred, deceit – mothers, brothers, lovers, others. How can a writer not recapitulate what he has read or heard or seen adapted into a Gilligan’s Island episode? What character is not a Frankenstein of archetype slices?
Is fiction boring? Truth is certainly stranger. Haven’t I heard before that younger readers prefer fiction and as they age prefer more-and-more non-fiction? What does that say about us? Is fiction boring? Maybe not – but this blog entry certainly is. I will finish.
