Thursday, August 11, 2011

A friend, G.K. Chesterton, works of literature, and life..Part 1

"Books are not real life". Those championing this phrase generally do so with a kind of superior practicality and rustic sophistication. They live in the "real world" and therefore are more acutely aware of those that do not. If you are one of those people, please do not take offense. I am not insulting you, but merely offering some thoughts upon which to muse. In fact, I would go so far as to state my conviction that books are at their very core, real life. Please do not misunderstand, there are those who misapply my conclusion. For I do not refer to some melodramatic and nebulous ideal of every book's content as correspondent to real life. Rather, I use the term "book" as a reference to literary form, as its specific medium of printed communication. Allow me to explain..

Author, Dedication, Introduction, etc..
How many times has some individual or another read a dedication at the beginning of a book and wondered at its significance? Why is this specific work dedicated to Maud Beacher(fictional name used to prove a point)? Why not some other book? Why not some other women, man or child? Why not a virile beast from some other continent? Why not a blathering blogger such as myself? Forgive me, I digress..

The point, is that every book has some form of inspiration, reason, or background for its creation. This is true from the dullest textbook to the headiest novel. There must always be an author. Since it is intrinsically impossible for an author to be completely devoid of some sort of experiential existence, it follows that their creation undeniably stems in some form or another from this same experiential existence. Therefore, it seems reasonable to extrapolate that if a reader is better acquainted with the circumstances surrounding an author, that reader will better understand the author's inspiration and his or her resulting creation or work.

Is this not also true in life? Life, just as any other grand work, has an Author. Consequently, life can only be best understood when the "liver" is as familiar as possible with the character of the Author and His purpose for creating. What reader would not exult at the opportunity to question Homer upon his meanings and inspirations concerning The Iliad? Would it not make sense that this same passion and interest should be put forth to better comprehend the Author of Life's intent for creating?

 Many times, authors are misquoted and taken out of context. Some do this out of an intent to maliciously misrepresent the author. Others, simply act out of an uninformed naivety. Still others argue it is impossible to truly know the author's intent and therefore whatever application best describes an individual is the one that individual should propagate.

The Author of life is similarly misunderstood, misquoted, blasphemed, taken out of context, or simply ignored. Yet, apart from Him, it is fundamentally impossible to truly understand and fully comprehend why there is life, what life is, and the result of its conclusion or ending. 

On an individualistic and profane(as in non-religious, not evil/bad) level, this principle similarly applies. Each human being has a background, and their parents have a background, and their grandparents have a background, etc.. Each life has an author, two that have become one. Each life is by default dedicated to something or someone, if nothing else, to the self. Each life has some sort of introduction/back-story by which it is best understood.

This post was inspired by a friend, G.K. Chesterton's The Man Who Was Thursday, and an unforeseen set of circumstances that required a pause before completing the last chapter of the aforementioned book. The result of these factors led to contemplation, and the result of that contemplation led to this monologue..More to come..

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