Alice Munro Redux
I continue to read Hateship, Friendship, Courtship, Loveship, Marriage. And I don't mind saying that other than the title story, the structure and point of the other stories often leaves me completely mystified. That doesn't mean I don't enjoy them. I enjoy much of them. There are moments that I think that looking at the imaginary wallpaper on my living room wall might be more interesting, but they are rare and mostly due to my own inattention.
I set out to chart the course of one of the stories and noted that it was divided into what could be considered 11 distinct sections or, were it a novel, chapters. The first scene seems to have nothing whatsoever to do with the main body of the story. I've read it twice now and I don't know what connection I'm supposed to derive from it to the surrounding material. Perhaps it's an instance of character development of the two lead characters; perhaps it is some form of oblique play-off. Whatever it is, the purpose has, for the time, eluded my grasp. So, rather than fretting over it, I elide it and move on. The main body of the story makes a sort of sense--although in a rather distant way. There is an epic journey, a new meeting, a lost-in-the-cornfield, and a stirring climax that seemingly comes out of nowhere. And perhaps this is where the beginning ties into the end, seeing how such actions are possible.
But even not completely comprehending intent or meaning, I still can enjoy the story. I can see what the author shows me, I can participate in it with the characters. While I don't understand all of the actions, none of them seems so outre and bizarre as to be completely inexplicable and outside the realm of the possible within the frame of the story. So, I surrender understanding to go along with the story for the time being, and realize that this is one of the ways that art can imitate life. Too often we do not understand the meaning, if any, of all the events that carry us on; however, that does not preclude enjoying the ride and the view from where we are at the time.
So, while meaning and complete sense, for the moment elude me, I enjoy the images and the moments from the story--the sense or lack of it that drives the action forward and the reiteration of theme in different modes that may bind the whole thing together. And all of this sort of in the back of my mind as I go about my daily activities. THAT is part of what the enjoyment of literature is--a companion, a background music that adds depth to the foreground action, a system of thought and interaction that perhaps deepens my own thought. Certainly that isn't all that can be obtained from the proper study of literature, but it is often enough to make the whole enterprise worthwhile.
I set out to chart the course of one of the stories and noted that it was divided into what could be considered 11 distinct sections or, were it a novel, chapters. The first scene seems to have nothing whatsoever to do with the main body of the story. I've read it twice now and I don't know what connection I'm supposed to derive from it to the surrounding material. Perhaps it's an instance of character development of the two lead characters; perhaps it is some form of oblique play-off. Whatever it is, the purpose has, for the time, eluded my grasp. So, rather than fretting over it, I elide it and move on. The main body of the story makes a sort of sense--although in a rather distant way. There is an epic journey, a new meeting, a lost-in-the-cornfield, and a stirring climax that seemingly comes out of nowhere. And perhaps this is where the beginning ties into the end, seeing how such actions are possible.
But even not completely comprehending intent or meaning, I still can enjoy the story. I can see what the author shows me, I can participate in it with the characters. While I don't understand all of the actions, none of them seems so outre and bizarre as to be completely inexplicable and outside the realm of the possible within the frame of the story. So, I surrender understanding to go along with the story for the time being, and realize that this is one of the ways that art can imitate life. Too often we do not understand the meaning, if any, of all the events that carry us on; however, that does not preclude enjoying the ride and the view from where we are at the time.
So, while meaning and complete sense, for the moment elude me, I enjoy the images and the moments from the story--the sense or lack of it that drives the action forward and the reiteration of theme in different modes that may bind the whole thing together. And all of this sort of in the back of my mind as I go about my daily activities. THAT is part of what the enjoyment of literature is--a companion, a background music that adds depth to the foreground action, a system of thought and interaction that perhaps deepens my own thought. Certainly that isn't all that can be obtained from the proper study of literature, but it is often enough to make the whole enterprise worthwhile.
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