November 14, 2008 § Leave a comment
To read a story is to lay down your weapons and wander defenseless along the meandering paths of plot and character. A good story sneaks up on you, lulling you in with its pleasantries or beguiling you with its sultry, come hither words. You are drawn in, and as the curtains fall closed behind you in velvety silence all else disappears. The people and places are unknown, yet somehow familiar. You spend a few moments with this person or that, thinking along with their thoughts or obsessing with their obsessions, or their fears, or their neuroses. Suddenly, without a proper introduction, appears Meaning as he leaps out from the confines of the final punctuation. With his untrumpeted arrival comes the realization that he has been there all along wandering the pages with you, holding your hand across various leaps and pointing the way when things suddenly changed direction. And as you warm to him you find that he is something deeper, something truer, something which treads upon each page, yet is wholly unbound by the book and its cover. For the story means something but is not Meaning. He is something else entirely. Meaning exists not for the story but the other way around.