Writing, does it matter?

In my first post I wrote about John Gardner, author of  The Art of Fiction Notes on Craft for young writers.  Gardner was not just a teacher to me, he remains one of my favorite authors.  His book, October Light, is a thing of beauty. I’ve reread it often, loving the story about the feud between an old man and his elderly sister, which is also the story’s  symbol for the feud between liberals and conservatives in the United States.

Copyrighted in 1976, Gardner’s word pictures, and the thoughts that he evokes would be enough to make it a great book even without the humor.   The protagonist, James Page, is a “thoughtful man” a man of character. This is an attribute  in short supply at the present moment, and so, whenever I need to remember men of character, and remind myself that they existed, I linger over October Light.

When I read October Light, The Art of Fiction, or Gardner’s essay, Learning from Disney and Dickens, I can’t accept  his conclusion that fiction, or painting, or great music don’t, in the end, interpret life’s  meaning. I reject the idea that they are wonderful as works of art, and bring us joy, but perhaps are  useless, or even meaningless.

That was the conclusion that he drew towards the end of  the essay, Learing from Disney and Dickens, which was written  shortly before his death. The essay, on the whole,  is a joyous one; as I look at it now, I who never met, but am fond of him, can feel Gardner’s presence in his words.

I feel his character, talent and humor, and can still rejoice in them. And so I wonder at his conclusion about the meaning of fiction. Was that conclusion an afterthought, a gloomy thought that overtook him just as he finished that good humored essay?

I never knew John Gardner, but if I could speak to him now, I would try to persuade him that his belief about fictions importance, was mistaken, and I would offer his own words, so carefully written, as my argument.

I would say, “You are alive in these words, John Gardner, you built the fictional dream for me, and made James Page matter to me.  You made me understand and love these people.  They live again in the book and in the mind of the reader who reads them. They live in my mind and my heart; they made me laugh and cry.  Whenever, the world itself is too much for me, and everything hurts too much, I can turn away for awhile..I can escape into the story and the world that you made for me, and heal.  And that, sir, is neither useless or without meaning.”