There is no doubt a preoccupation, a fantasy, if you will, among certain of us to write, for once and for eternity, "the great American novel."
What would it say? This has been a great and remarkable country, with a vast array of attractions - throughout Its history. The great American novel need not be a historical document. History is loosely assembled around facts, yes there is inherent ideology - history is written by the victor. However, I think we do have a sense, in the US, that our history is written relatively truthfully. There is at least an implicit idea of progress that we nurture in our republic, however distorted this concept of "progress" has become. I will not take the time here to delve into the convoluted concepts that qualify under the heading "progress" at this time and date - in the two-thousandth and tenth year of our Lord.
The great American novel is really more about the lyrical, the poetical, the personal viewpoint, taking into consideration, in due measure, the external realities of the time. Who is our character and how does he/she relate to the "blooming, buzzing" confusion of the streets? The streets that so typify their times? Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald. Even, on another level, Catcher in the rye by J.D. Salinger. The narrator deeply within the psyche of the main character.
Rather, back to the point of this post, and that is - perhaps the preoccupation, the interest that the idea of writing the great American novel holds for us, is in simply wanting to be heard, to be understood, to be remembered, to be valued. (Perhaps with all this progress thus far we've lost something).
To be seen under and within the light (of truth), one could say being seen as God sees us, one could further water this down and plead, at last, to be seen as the unique species that is human being (Humanistic). To be seen, to be heard, to have you listen to us air our major grievances, our greatest outrages, our most outlandish dreams, to join us in our most cherished reveries - the story of falling in love, the specific individual vision of heartbreak, the specific revelation of the universal.
And so we want to show you these things, have you walk a mile in our shoes, the great lesson of Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird.
We will not all write the great American novel. This simply is not a feasible possibility. Some of us must merely live our lives. Perhaps we become scholars in the art of living. The more honorable among us will take on philosophy - "The love of wisdom," and the rest, those who worship at the feet of mammon, will take on persuasion, the art of rhetoric. They will be Machiavellian, and they will be good candidates, most of them, for middle management, with a 5:1 shot at upward mobility.
We journey through this life, as busy assembling meaning (the philosophers among us) as life is in refining our natures. The great wash-board of life. Refined by fire. Born out of suffering is strength, yes, but also weariness and weakness, rust. In the end, the years wear down the best among us. And for the best among us, those who tower over us in the bright shining strength of their characters, in the radiant glory of their God-given true natures, those who seek to walk with God, to be known, indeed as the friend of God, in the splendor'd countenance of Moses descending the mountain, these Abrahams amongst us also to will perish.
And whether they perish and are gathered to their peoples with crying in the streets, or in relative obscurity, alone in some candle-lit room, I feel that heaven cries out for them, the skies open in a deluge upon us mere mortals, pelting our heads to chastise us for our weakness.
But again, back to the point. The desire to write the great American novel. Is it not a desire to be heard, to be known, to be remembered in our innermost detail, and to convey this knowledge to others? To be known in the matrix of our times - our culture, our friends and family, those who loved us and those we loved? To let the world know the things we hated and the things we loved?
We spend most of our lives these days running through a "Rube Goldberg" machine of the Monday-Friday workweek, only to get to the weekend to try to once again ignite our passion, to jumpstart the flatlined dream that we once knew and clung to so tightly, so dearly, in our youth. To assemble once again, the crew, to "get the band back together."
But if we must lie somnolent, supine, and let the sweat grow beads on our brows, toss and turn in an empty room, in our four-walled worlds, trapped in a prison of our own device, then I suppose, we can hold out the last hope of writing the great American novel. Forgive me the sarcasm, but even if we pass away into obscurity, or should I say through obscurity, grow older, and lose our "matrix" of friends and associates, we still are known to God.
What would it say? This has been a great and remarkable country, with a vast array of attractions - throughout Its history. The great American novel need not be a historical document. History is loosely assembled around facts, yes there is inherent ideology - history is written by the victor. However, I think we do have a sense, in the US, that our history is written relatively truthfully. There is at least an implicit idea of progress that we nurture in our republic, however distorted this concept of "progress" has become. I will not take the time here to delve into the convoluted concepts that qualify under the heading "progress" at this time and date - in the two-thousandth and tenth year of our Lord.
The great American novel is really more about the lyrical, the poetical, the personal viewpoint, taking into consideration, in due measure, the external realities of the time. Who is our character and how does he/she relate to the "blooming, buzzing" confusion of the streets? The streets that so typify their times? Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald. Even, on another level, Catcher in the rye by J.D. Salinger. The narrator deeply within the psyche of the main character.
Rather, back to the point of this post, and that is - perhaps the preoccupation, the interest that the idea of writing the great American novel holds for us, is in simply wanting to be heard, to be understood, to be remembered, to be valued. (Perhaps with all this progress thus far we've lost something).
To be seen under and within the light (of truth), one could say being seen as God sees us, one could further water this down and plead, at last, to be seen as the unique species that is human being (Humanistic). To be seen, to be heard, to have you listen to us air our major grievances, our greatest outrages, our most outlandish dreams, to join us in our most cherished reveries - the story of falling in love, the specific individual vision of heartbreak, the specific revelation of the universal.
And so we want to show you these things, have you walk a mile in our shoes, the great lesson of Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird.
We will not all write the great American novel. This simply is not a feasible possibility. Some of us must merely live our lives. Perhaps we become scholars in the art of living. The more honorable among us will take on philosophy - "The love of wisdom," and the rest, those who worship at the feet of mammon, will take on persuasion, the art of rhetoric. They will be Machiavellian, and they will be good candidates, most of them, for middle management, with a 5:1 shot at upward mobility.
We journey through this life, as busy assembling meaning (the philosophers among us) as life is in refining our natures. The great wash-board of life. Refined by fire. Born out of suffering is strength, yes, but also weariness and weakness, rust. In the end, the years wear down the best among us. And for the best among us, those who tower over us in the bright shining strength of their characters, in the radiant glory of their God-given true natures, those who seek to walk with God, to be known, indeed as the friend of God, in the splendor'd countenance of Moses descending the mountain, these Abrahams amongst us also to will perish.
And whether they perish and are gathered to their peoples with crying in the streets, or in relative obscurity, alone in some candle-lit room, I feel that heaven cries out for them, the skies open in a deluge upon us mere mortals, pelting our heads to chastise us for our weakness.
But again, back to the point. The desire to write the great American novel. Is it not a desire to be heard, to be known, to be remembered in our innermost detail, and to convey this knowledge to others? To be known in the matrix of our times - our culture, our friends and family, those who loved us and those we loved? To let the world know the things we hated and the things we loved?
We spend most of our lives these days running through a "Rube Goldberg" machine of the Monday-Friday workweek, only to get to the weekend to try to once again ignite our passion, to jumpstart the flatlined dream that we once knew and clung to so tightly, so dearly, in our youth. To assemble once again, the crew, to "get the band back together."
But if we must lie somnolent, supine, and let the sweat grow beads on our brows, toss and turn in an empty room, in our four-walled worlds, trapped in a prison of our own device, then I suppose, we can hold out the last hope of writing the great American novel. Forgive me the sarcasm, but even if we pass away into obscurity, or should I say through obscurity, grow older, and lose our "matrix" of friends and associates, we still are known to God.
Even if I forget where I was going, become distracted from who I once was, as I pass through possibility to actuality, from actuality to obscurity. When the sun sets on our role models, on those we look up to, these things, these memories, these intentions of mine must not fade away and pass into the void.
Under the starry skies tonight I looked up and wondered if there might yet be hope for all of us sinners with the silver sprouting signs of wisdom on our crowns and songs still left in our hearts...
