Oh, to be sucked into the world of fiction. I wonder who the first storytellers were. How, in the grand evolution of human consciousness, did the first weaver of fictional stories realize that he or she can breathe life into things – characters, events, and places - untrue. One has to wonder, did fiction come from man’s propensity to lie? Every good fictional story is rooted in something accessible, something outsiders (read: audience) can relate to in the most basic level, anyway. In essence, fiction is twisted reality. It requires the suspension of disbelief with the awareness that even if the things unfolding before your eyes somehow contain facets of your own life experiences, they cannot hurt you because you don’t live in that world. It’s fascinating, really. Which is exactly what stories are for – to fascinate.
I’m still halfway through Haruki Murakami’s Kafka on the Shore and yet I’ve already quoted the book three times. To be redundant, it’s a fascinating tale. Much like a TV series episode I rewatched today – some guy with a rare disease, something like Mesothelioma, concocted a plan to stay young and pretty forever: by asking a vampire to bite him and turn him. I felt his pain and his fear of mortality, and even if he resorted to a radical solution, only available to him being in an imagined world, I understood his motives and felt sorry when he got the same fate anyway, only sooner. There are lessons in every fantastic tale. Sometimes, they are not readily apparent; but it’s even more rewarding to extract substance from the metaphysical form. That way, you let fiction touch you. That way, you feel a little less alone.