Why literature matters so damn much-- at least, to me.

There are poems and poets that live in my head, and I gratefully give them space. Keats' "When I have Fears" and Wendell Berry's "The Peace of Wild Things" are particularly resonant for me, lately. Shelley's "Ode to the West Wind" begs consideration, as well as his "Ozymandias." Jane Kenyon's "Otherwise" trickles through my brain on occasion, as well. I'm haunted by Frost's "Home Burial." Whitman's "Song of Myself," verse 52, concludes with

I bequeathe myself to the dirt, to grow from the grass I love;
If you want me again, look for me under your boot-soles.

You will hardly know who I am, or what I mean;
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first, keep encouraged;
Missing me one place, search another;
I stop somewhere, waiting for you.

The list is long, and there are reasons and seasons for why I love each poem. 

Alongside them, there are favorite lines from books, often opening lines or closing ones: consider, from The Catcher in the Rye, " If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don't feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth." Or, to end The Sun Also Rises, "Isn't it pretty to think so?" 

I think the one quality that links all of these selections, as well as others in my brain-library, is that they all speak to the fact that nothing is permanent, and people have always had to contend with the slippage of time. What we want, what we expect, what we work for, can all fade into darkness at any time, and it's how we deal with this ontological knowledge that marks us for who we are. 

Poetry, and well-written fiction, give us the opportunity --they invite us-- to occupy a liminal space, to become a part of the ebb and flow of words that try so hard to record and define human experience. We are, for a sacred time, able to commune with humanity in a way that can both comfort and challenge us. Can we gain, or at least borrow, wisdom? Only if we are open to it, willing to take it into ourselves and let it settle for a while. We don't have to accept every word, every thought, but we should agree to consider what each writer over the ages is attempting to bring to light. 

Again, from Whitman, from Leaves of Grass:

Oh me! Oh life! of the questions of these recurring,

Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill’d with the foolish,

Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)

Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean, of the struggle ever renew’d,

Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me,

Of the empty and useless years of the rest, with the rest me intertwined,

The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?

                                       Answer.

That you are here—that life exists and identity,

That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.

That's it, isn't it? The "powerful play goes on," and I want to make my small contribution. I bow my head to the sages and ages, and hope that I might have something to offer as well.

Have a good day,

C